Look for Me

by Lisa Gardner

  “He loved me,” she whispered. “We were getting out. Mother Del said he could stay one more year to finish high school, because he was behind. Moment we graduated, we were headed to New York. Our own place, our own lives. He’d get a job in a bar. I’d hit the stage. And we were gonna make it. Together.”

  Anya twisted her face away. In the glow of the streetlights, I could see the tears tracking down her cheeks. Dramatic, I thought. And yet . . . poignant, too. If she was only acting, then she was right: Broadway, look out.

  “Lola Baez and her band of chica homeys killed Roberto. Ask around. Everyone knows it. That was Lola’s price for joining. They were happy to pay it.”

  “And Roxy?” D.D. asked quietly.

  Anya shrugged, wiped her face. “I don’t know. Wherever Lola went, Roxy was bound to follow. Protective older sister and all that.”

  “So she joined the gang, as well?”

  “I don’t hang in those circles. A bunch of crazy Hispanics aren’t exactly open and accepting to a girl like me.”

  “You said everyone knew Lola joined the gang. Did that include her mom?”

  “I don’t know Lola’s family. I never even met the mom. Just had to listen to them crying for her, night after night after night.” Anya sounded bitter.

  “And your mom?” I asked.

  “Shut up.” But there was no heat in her voice. Only flatness. I recognized the tone. I heard it often in my own voice, or from other survivors.

  We all hurt in our own way, I thought. And whether I liked Anya Seton or not, she clearly had her fair share of scars. She’d do well in New York. Between her exotic looks and iron will, nothing would hold her back.

  “Where were you this morning around nine?” D.D. pressed.

  “I was with Doug.”

  “Already at rehearsal?” I asked in surprise.

  Anya shot me a smug look. “Sure,” she said in a tone we all understood. So: from first love Roberto to screwing the theater director. Whatever it took to succeed.

  “We’ll be following up with him,” D.D. warned.

  “You might want to wait till his wife has gone to work. She doesn’t know about us yet. She just thinks he’s a very . . . diligent . . . director.”

  I rolled my eyes, already feeling the bile rise in the back of my throat.

  “We’re still looking for Roxy Baez,” D.D. was saying.

  “You think she’ll come here? You think she’ll try to hurt me?”

  “I don’t know. You tell us.”

  “I think if you want her alive, you’d better hope I don’t find her first.”

  “I thought Lola was the one who hurt Roberto.”

  “Please, those two girls . . . Whatever Lola did, Roxy knew. Lola might be the beauty, but Roxy was the brains. I’m not sorry Lola and her family are dead. I’m only sorry Roxy hasn’t joined them yet.”

  Chapter 25

  TEN P.M., D.D. AND PHIL sat in her car, talking it through.

  “Think your new CI knows something?” Phil asked bluntly, referring to Flora, his tone clearly disapproving.

  “No. If she had Roxy, Flora would be hanging with her, and not still chasing after us.”

  “Good point. Think you can trust her?”

  “Flora? I think as long as her interests align with ours, her efforts can be useful.”

  “And what are her interests?”

  “Keeping Roxy safe.”

  “Meaning, again, she could be hiding Roxy from us.”

  D.D. studied Phil. The two of them went way back. In many ways, the older, more experienced detective was like a father figure to her. Definitely, he was comfortable calling her on her bullshit while respecting her workaholic ways. And yet they had their moments when they had to agree to disagree. She had a feeling Flora Dane was about to fall into that category.

  “I will admit I don’t always approve of Flora’s methods,” D.D. began. Phil grunted, as if to say that was the understatement of the year. “But as CI material . . . Her reputation gives her access and credibility to entire segments of the population who’d never talk to cops. We need that right now. The more eyes and ears searching for Roxy, the better.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Phil said bluntly.

  “Okay.”

  “What happened to her, I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But for someone who spends all her time talking about surviving . . . she’s broken. In ways I’m not convinced she even understands.”

  “That bandage on her hand,” D.D. muttered.

  “Exactly. That makes her unpredictable.” Phil regarded her steadily. “Maybe Flora can strike up a faster accord with street kids or gang members, but there’s no substitute for an experienced detective.”

  D.D. got what he was saying: There was no substitute for him, Neil, and Carol Manley, her overworked and often underappreciated homicide squad. Phil wasn’t just the voice of reason; he was also her conscience.

  “I think Roxy’s gone to ground again,” she said now, getting back to the business at hand. “Another bolt-hole, like the empty space across from the coffee shop. For all we know she has dozens of them sprinkled around Brighton.”

  “Nothing like a well-prepared sixteen-year-old.”

  D.D. shrugged. “There are a couple of things all our witnesses agree on when it comes to Roxanna Baez: She’d do anything to protect her siblings, and she was under an increasing amount of stress. I think she knew something bad was coming. And maybe the hidey-holes weren’t just for her. But for her and Lola, if it came to that.”

  “The gang?” Phil asked.

  “Oh, yeah. We’re gonna have to find these Niñas Diablas. Call me crazy, but I think we should consult the gang task force first. The only thing I know about girl gangs is that they’re considered twice as violent as their male counterparts.”

  “Sounds like a perfect job for Flora Dane.”

  “Doubt the city could survive the body count.”

  Phil nodded his agreement.

  “Hector Alvalos?” D.D. asked, having lost track of the man’s status with everything else going on.

  “Gonna stay in the hospital overnight. We have officers watching. I’m thinking a unit should sit on his home when he’s discharged.”

  “Perfect. Having failed the first time to shoot him, maybe we’ll get lucky and Roxy will try again.”

  “What do you think she’s up to?” Phil asked.

  “I have no idea. But two key points keep emerging. First, something terrible happened to Roxy and Lola five years ago when they were in foster care. Second, after returning to Brighton, Lola joined a gang, possibly for protection from her and Roxy’s old enemies, but maybe even to go on the offensive and drive one of the perpetrators to kill himself.”

  “You think Anya Seton was right about her boyfriend—Roberto didn’t really commit suicide?”

  “I don’t like the coincidence of having a quadruple murder now connected to another death four months ago. In my mind, that raises a red flag.”

  “I’ll pull the file on Roberto’s death,” Phil assured her. “Give it a look.”

  “We need to talk to this lawyer Juanita hired,” D.D. continued, thinking out loud. “Clearly, she’d been running around asking a lot of questions. What had she learned? How many feathers had she ruffled?”

  “And did any of it get her killed?” Phil filled in.

  “Exactly.”

  “I think we should follow up with the community theater director,” Phil said, “who we know is sleeping with at least one of his very young star actresses.”

  “Maybe he had a history with Lola, as well,” D.D. agreed.

  “Who wouldn’t be just young, but illegal,” Phil pointed out.

  “Gotta say, the Baez girls racked up their fair share of baggage during their short lives.” D.D sighed, rubbed her for
ehead. She was tired from the day, and yet, with a missing teenage girl still out there, possibly in danger, or possibly a danger . . .

  “We should take a break,” Phil said now, as if reading her mind. “Get some rest, regroup in the morning. Speaking for myself, I’d certainly like a moment to go home, kiss my wife, and remember the good things in life. You?”

  D.D. finally smiled. “You’re right: I’m gonna go home, catch up with my family, and finally meet the Dog.”

  • • •

  SHE TOOK HER TIME DRIVING back to the burbs. After a long day, it was tempting to head straight for her sanctuary. In the old days, when she lived by herself in a North End loft, that had often been the case. But being a married woman now, with a little boy to boot, she’d found it best to transition fully between work and personal life. She needed to let go of the horror of four people gunned down inside their own home so she didn’t walk into her living room seeing the same thing. She needed to cleanse her brain of two kids making their last, terrified stand in the corner of their bedroom before she walked into Jack’s little-boy bedroom and broke down crying.

  Anya Seton had implied that Lola was a coldhearted bitch, capable of almost anything. But all D.D. could see was Lola tucking her little brother’s head against her shoulder so he wouldn’t have to know what was going to happen next.

  She wondered how much Roxy knew or heard about on the news. D.D. wasn’t convinced anymore that the older girl could’ve murdered her own family. But based on witness statements, Roxy had clearly known that something bad was looming on the horizon. Some kind of threat she’d been working frantically to ward off. Some kind of danger she was still running from now.

  Or she was already making the transition straight to revenge.

  D.D. wouldn’t sleep much that night. But then, neither would Flora Dane or Roxy Baez. A city of insomniacs. Of people who knew too much, had lost too much, and were still trying to figure out how to carry on.

  By the time D.D. pulled into her driveway, she was humming one of Jack’s favorite songs under her breath. “Everything Is Awesome!!!”—the theme song from The LEGO Movie. A catchy tune designed to drive parents insane, especially as five-year-olds could sing it all day long.

  But it was also a trick she’d mastered years ago. Recite a passage from one of Jack’s bedtime stories. Sing a lullaby. Review the newest knock-knock joke. Fill her brain with the goofy, silly sweetness that was her son.

  And use it to chase the shadows from her head.

  She worked the front door locks quietly. Tiptoed in, given the hour. Her gaze immediately darted around the space.

  Looking for Dog.

  In the end, she’d never looked at the photo on her phone. She’d decided, given her day, the least she deserved was meeting Dog in person.

  Alex was lying on his back on the sofa. He smiled as she crept into the family room. Then he lifted a hand and pointed.

  There, on Alex’s stomach, sprawled a black-and-white blanket. No, a white, lanky dog covered in a mess of black dots and topped with two big, solid black ears.

  The dog lifted its head and regarded D.D. with dark soulful eyes.

  “Meet Kiko,” Alex said. “The best spotted dog in all the land.”

  D.D., falling to his side, agreed.

  • • •

  “SHE CAME HOME WITH A giant hippo—apparently her favorite toy,” Alex explained thirty minutes later as they stood in the backyard and tried to coax Kiko into doing her business. “She’s a Dalmatian–slash–German shorthaired pointer mix. One year old. Very high energy, but smart. Highly trainable, as they put it. Unfortunately, her first family didn’t have enough time to put into exercising and training her.”

  D.D. arched a brow.

  In answer to her unspoken question, Alex explained: “You like to run, now you have a partner. Jack likes to play ball, now he has a partner. And I like to boss everyone around, now I have a new victim.”

  “You’ve put some thought into this.”

  “Actually, it was completely magic.” His tone relented. “I know it’s hard for you, D.D. You would’ve liked to have been there, but once again your job took you away. I don’t want to rub your nose in it. But walking into the shelter, all those dogs. Puppies, adults. Barking, jumping, sleeping. We walked the whole row. I didn’t know what Jack was going to do. It was overwhelming. And a bit sad, really. So many dogs in need of a home.

  “Then, Jack saw Kiko. Or she saw him. I don’t know. She walked right to the edge of the kennel. She sat down, stared straight at him. He dropped before her and said, ‘This one, Daddy. I want this one.’

  “The shelter volunteer started to explain to me that she was very high energy, would require work, already had a reputation for chewing things and was nervous around other dogs.”

  D.D. winced. Chewing things. Her precious shoes.

  “But once I explained we had a fenced-in yard, an active five-year-old, and no other dogs around . . . I think they were meant for each other. Jack does, too.”

  Kiko finally came trotting over. “Good girl,” Alex crooned in a tone D.D. swore he’d once used on her.

  He handed D.D. a soft treat. “Give it to her so she knows you’re part of the pack.”

  D.D. hadn’t grown up with dogs. She knew them, of course. Met them at other people’s houses or at the park. She was amazed now at how nervous she felt. Not about whether she would like the dog, but whether the dog would like her.

  She held out some gluten-free, grain-free all-natural treat that Alex had purchased, which smelled better than what she and Phil had managed for dinner.

  Kiko approached slowly. One long leg at a time. She had a lean, coltish build, all ears and limbs. Now, the spotted dog stretched out her neck. Very gently, she removed the treat from between D.D.’s fingers and swallowed it down.

  “Oh,” D.D. said quietly.

  “Stroke her ears,” Alex said. “Or she likes to be scratched under the chin.”

  D.D. rubbed the dog’s silky ears, scratched under her chin. Kiko leaned in closer, sighed heavily.

  “I’m going to have short white hairs all over my clothes, aren’t I,” D.D. said.

  “Yep. Welcome to life with Dog.”

  “And Jack?”

  “Over the moon. Couldn’t be happier. Has already stolen my phone to take a hundred and one photos. He wants her to sleep in his room, so we set up the crate in there. But the moment we put her in, she started barking and crying. And not like a bark, bark, but more like a roo, roo, roo. Trust me, Jack will imitate it for you in the morning.”

  “Lovely.”

  “At the shelter, they said she’d need a week or so to acclimate. Crate training is best. Put her inside when we’re not around, then let her outside first thing to do her business. Lots of treats, lots of praise. We’re all going to have to get to know one another. In the meantime, all wastebaskets have been moved up high. Your shoes are shut up in your closet. And Jack has instructions to keep his bedroom door closed, or the lost Legos and future vet bills are coming out of his allowance.”

  “I like it.”

  “Yeah, except given a five-year-old’s attention span—”

  “We have about sixty seconds before he forgets.”

  “Kiko’s young. We’re newbies. I think we should all agree now, there’s going to be some mistakes along the way.”

  “You’re talking about my shoes again, aren’t you?”

  “You mean the black leather boots you kicked off the moment you walked into the house?”

  “Ah, shit.” D.D. backtracked quickly. Kiko followed her this time, dancing at her heels. Fast movements clearly excited the dog. More things to remember. D.D. retrieved her boots, then noticed the three baskets Alex had placed high up on a shelf in the mudroom. “Oh.”

  “What?” Alex walked in behind her. Jack’s light-up
tennis shoes were on the bench. Off the floor, but still in reach of the long-legged dog. D.D. picked them up, too.

  “The family today,” D.D. said softly. “They had a bench, basket, shoes. Including a pair for their son, which looked exactly like something Jack would wear.”

  Alex placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hate these scenes.” She managed to get her boots and Jack’s sneakers in the new baskets. Then she squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Someone walked right into the home. Shot the mother’s boyfriend in the family room, the mother in the kitchen. Then headed upstairs for the kids. They saw it coming. The older sister, thirteen, tried to shield her younger brother. One of those things . . . I’m never gonna get it out of my head. None of us will ever get it out of our heads.”

  Alex turned her toward him. She was crying. Softly. In a way she hated, because she was a homicide detective and she should be tough enough. Except she was a mom now, too. And sometimes, compartmentalization failed her.

  “You locate the missing girl? The teen from the Amber Alert?”

  “No.”

  “Think she did it?”

  “I’d be surprised. By all accounts, she went out of her way to protect her younger siblings. Her mother was a recovering alcoholic. Even lost custody of the kids for a bit. The older girl, Roxy, took on the parenting role in the family. It’s possible she had issues with her mom given all that, but we have no reason to believe she’d shoot her younger sister and brother in cold blood.”

  “Mother’s ex, one of the kids’ biological fathers?”

  “Girls’ biological fathers aren’t in the picture. The son’s father, and the mother’s most recent ex, got shot later today, possibly by Roxy, so maybe she thinks he did it. But most leads are pointing to the younger sister’s involvement in a gang, plus the mom had recently started asking questions about the year her kids spent in foster care. She thought something had happened to them, maybe even sexual abuse. We’re trying to reach her lawyer now, but Juanita Baez was definitely stirring the pot, including laying the groundwork for a huge lawsuit.”

  “As in suing the state for millions of dollars?”