by Lisa Gardner
“Do you have those essays?” D.D. asked. “The ones you wrote but didn’t turn in? I’d like to read them. I’d like to understand better what happened five years ago, because I can’t help thinking it has something to do with what’s going on now.”
Roxy nudged the battered blue folder across the table. D.D. took it.
“Roberto died,” D.D. said, “but things didn’t get better, did they? If anything, your sister grew more agitated. And then you, too.”
“My mom.” Roxy barely got the words out. “She meant well. I know she did. But there’d been some incidents with Lola, and then getting called to the principal’s office over the photo . . . She started asking questions. Pressing both of us. She kept saying she just wanted to know the truth. But we couldn’t . . . We wouldn’t.”
I got it. “You thought she’d think it was all her fault. You were afraid learning what had happened to you and Lola at Mother Del’s would drive her to drink again.”
Slowly, Roxy nodded.
“Other than the photo Roberto distributed, do you know of any other evidence of what happened during your time at Mother Del’s?” D.D. asked.
Roxy shook her head.
“What about Mother Del?”
A rough smile. “That woman could sleep through a train crash.”
“Did she hit you? Threaten you? Engage in any inappropriate behaviors?”
Roxy shook her head.
D.D. chewed her lower lip, considered. “Who do you think shot your family?”
“I don’t know.”
“No. You do. Everyone we’ve been talking to has commented that you’ve been stressed these past few weeks. You’ve been afraid, Roxy. Of what?”
“I don’t know,” Roxy repeated, starting to sound agitated now. “When Roberto died, I thought life would get easier. Lola would relax. But instead, she’s been more . . . erratic. Mom’s questions upset her. Something with her new gang had her on edge. Maybe she thought they’d killed Roberto, or were angry that they hadn’t. I don’t know. I followed her one day to the community theater. She wanted her part back, she said. It took me a moment to realize she meant the Little Orphan Annie role she should have won years ago, before Roberto and Anya showed up.
“I caught Lola screaming at Anya in front of the director, Doug. Anya was calling her a slut, and Lola was yelling that Anya would get hers. Doug was just standing there, not knowing what to do.”
Or enjoying the show, I thought, especially given that he was apparently sleeping with Anya.
“I dragged Lola away. But she was . . . vibrating. She kept repeating under her breath over and over again, ‘I will not be a victim, I will not be a victim.’ Then: ‘They will get theirs.’
“I was frightened,” Roxy said. “Lola has always been melodramatic. But this. I felt like she was becoming unhinged. I was still trying to figure out what to do, how much to say to my mom. Then, yesterday . . .”
“When you saw the police, your first thought was Lola,” D.D. said evenly. “You knew she was unstable. And you knew she still had a gun.”
“I should’ve thrown it away. Dropped it in a dumpster. Something.”
“Did you think she’d killed your family?”
“I thought maybe she and my mother had gotten into a fight. In which case, if Lola felt trapped, she might grab the gun. She would shoot first, think second. And Charlie, of course, would try to protect my mom.”
“What about Manny?” D.D. asked.
Roxy shook her head. “She wouldn’t harm Manny. Never. That’s the part that makes no sense. Lola is angry and impulsive. But she would slit her own wrists before harming a hair on our little brother’s head. He is all that’s good in the world. When we were at Mother Del’s, our weekly meetings with him, watching him light up when we walked into the room, that’s the only thing that gave us hope.”
“What happened to your family, Roxy?”
“I don’t know!” Roxy suddenly banged both hands against the table. “Don’t you get it yet? I took my dogs for a walk, and when I came back, my family was gone. Just like five years ago, when some lady showed up and my family was ripped apart. We try so hard. We love each other. I know we’re not perfect, but we love each other. And still. One moment. That’s all it takes. Destroyed. Over. Finished. Done.
“I ran. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what to do anymore.”
“You went to hide in the theater?”
“It’s a good location and I know it well.”
“It’s also where Anya Seton spends most of her days.” I spoke up. “You think she did it, don’t you? You’re keeping your eye on her.”
“She blames Lola and me for Roberto’s death. If anyone had a reason to seek out and destroy our family . . .”
“She also has an alibi,” D.D. said.
“Rehearsal? It didn’t start till noon yesterday.”
“More like a private session with the director.”
Roxy stilled. She wasn’t a dumb bunny—I could tell the moment she understood. Something drifted across her face, an expression too quick to catch. Then, abruptly, she sat back.
“I didn’t shoot my family,” she said.
“What about opening fire on Hector, or Las Niñas Diablas?”
“Why? Why would I do such a thing?”
“Hector abandoned you. He could’ve kept you and Lola from ever going to Mother Del’s if he’d just spoken up in family court.”
“Seriously? He was drunk that day. How would that have made a difference? My mother had her journey, he had his. At least both of them ended up doing what was right.”
“And Las Niñas Diablas? We hear they liked your sister so much, they wanted you to join, as well.”
“Wasn’t going to happen,” Roxy said.
“Not even to please Lola?”
“Wasn’t going to happen.”
“Come on, Roxanna.” D.D. tilted her head to the side. “Enough of the denial. Your family is dead, and presumably the same shooter is still running around taking shots at people you know.”
“Hector was Manny’s dad. Las Niñas Diablas, Lola’s gang. Doesn’t really make them people I know. More like people I’m acquainted with.”
“This is your defense?”
“I didn’t do this! Any of this! I didn’t hurt my family. I didn’t shoot Hector. And I sure as hell wouldn’t go after Lola’s crazy killer chicas. I’m not that dumb.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t—”
Roxy stopped. Her eyes widened slightly; then she shook her head.
“What is it?” D.D. demanded to know.
“Roberto. He’s the other person who ties this all together. My mother’s questions were most likely going to get him into trouble. Not to mention he hated Las Niñas Diablas for the way they treated him in school.”
“What about Hector?” D.D. asked.
“I don’t think he’d ever met Hector. But the dogs . . .” Roxy looked at us, the dogs resting on the floor, their heads on my and Sarah’s laps. “Maybe they were the real targets. Because Lola loved Rosie and Blaze. She often walked them to the park. When Roberto was there, he’d taunt her, tell her she was finally hanging with her own kind. But I think he was just jealous. Lola had a family. Lola had loving dogs. Roberto . . . he never had any of that. He was mean and cruel and awful. But sometimes, he was sad, too. Even we could see that.”
“Roberto’s dead,” D.D. stated.
Roxy merely shrugged. “But his girlfriend isn’t.”
Chapter 33
D.D.’S FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO take Roxanna Baez into protective custody—the girl was under eighteen, her entire family had just been murdered, and she was at the very least a person of interest in the investigation. Roxy, however, went from slowly shaking her head no to near hysteria in
a matter of minutes. Apparently, suggesting social services to a girl who’d once been ripped from her home and subjected to even further abuse wasn’t the best idea. In no time at all, the girl was backed against a wall, wielding a canister of bear spray and looking like she knew how to use it.
Sarah and Flora talked her down while gazing at D.D. like she was a total moron. Which maybe she had been. Social services was protocol in such cases, though, D.D. would be the first to admit, not always the right solution. Then again, she couldn’t just drag the girl down to BPD headquarters and leave her there, nor was there any basis for charging the girl with a crime. According to Roxy’s own testimony, she wasn’t even a witness to what had happened to her family. Just a sole survivor.
Which gave Sarah’s suggestion some credibility: Roxy would stay with her.
There was nothing to link Roxy to Sarah or her apartment, easing Roxy’s fears for her safety, while D.D. would arrange for extra patrol cars in the neighborhood, adding to the protective layers while keeping official eyes on her key person of interest. Roxy finally calmed down. Everyone in the tiny apartment started breathing again.
The bad news: The dogs would need to be returned to the school counselor, as they were too big for the tiny apartment, not to mention their presence would call attention to Sarah and her new roommate.
Flora volunteered to handle the dogs. Which left D.D. with the next piece of the puzzle: following up on the details of Roberto’s suicide four months ago. Because more and more, his death appeared to be related to, if not a catalyst for, the murders to come.
She started with a call to Phil, catching him up on recent developments. They still didn’t have any leads on the shooting from this morning. Two detectives, however, had finished reviewing the security footage from the blocks around Hector Alvalos’s attack. They had zeroed in on the image of a fleeing person, navy blue hoodie, long dark hair. They couldn’t find any camera angle that provided an image of the person’s face, however. Given the slight build, a teenage girl seemed about right. That was the best they could tell, and no, the person wasn’t carrying a backpack, light blue or otherwise.
“So Roxanna might be telling the truth,” D.D. murmured over the phone to Phil. “Okay, I have another task. According to Roxy, she headed down the block away from the café immediately after the shooting, stopping to buy a red-flowered scarf. Have uniforms check with local vendors to determine which store sells scarves. Better yet, does that store have a camera? Because if so, maybe can we get a definitive shot of Roxy making such a purchase. Which would corroborate her version of post-shooting events.”
“I sent Neil to talk to the theater director, Doug de Vries,” Phil reported. “Doug confirmed he was with Anya Seton yesterday morning, starting at eight A.M., though he swears he was just helping her run lines.”
“Mmm-hmm,” D.D. said. As alibis went, an aging married director covering for his jailbait lover didn’t rate too highly in her book. “What about during the time of Hector’s shooting? Anya have an alibi for that?”
“Actually she does. Play rehearsal was in full swing. Plenty of witnesses that she was in the theater for most of the afternoon. Not to mention she and de Vries arrived together before practice, while a whole group of them went straight to dinner after practice. Basically, Anya has someone to vouch for her company for the entire day.”
D.D. scowled, not liking this news so much.
“Isn’t she a blonde?” Phil was asking now. “While our shooter has been identified with long dark hair.”
“Please, she’s an actress with plenty of access to wigs. Hair color is easy to change. The multiple alibis, on the other hand . . .” D.D. chewed her lower lip. “But she has motive. In fact, best I can tell, Anya’s the only one with motive to attack all our victims.”
She could almost hear Phil shrugging over the phone. “Well, then she’s either smarter than we realize and has mastered the art of being in two places at once, or there’s something here we still don’t know.”
“Something? Or someone?” D.D. muttered grumpily. She pulled it together. “I need the name of the investigating officer into Roberto’s death.”
“Detective Hank Swetonic. Has a solid record.”
“Not the kind of guy to miss something obvious?”
“Not likely.”
“All right. Wish me luck.”
“Luck.”
“And, Phil, remind me at the end of the day to buy some cheap boots. I think before this puppy thing is over and done with, I’m gonna need some expendable shoes.”
D.D. ended the call. Sunday afternoon, traffic was light, at least by Boston standards. It gave her some time to collect her thoughts, though she still wasn’t sure what she was thinking.
Roberto. It felt to her that all roads led back to one bullying teenager and his reign of terror in a foster home. He’d abused Roxanna and Lola, plus untold others. He’d done whatever was necessary to advance his girlfriend’s stage ambitions. And he was possibly involved in the unlawful distribution of child porn.
Which raised another good question. Had Roberto left behind a bank account, any kind of financial resources? Because if he’d taken photos of his victims and sold them, where were those funds? Eighteen-year-olds weren’t exactly known for their advanced financial or legal planning. So where did he stash the money while he was alive? And what had happened to it upon his death?
A lockbox, she thought. The kind of thing he could keep close, yet also secure in an overcrowded foster home. Assuming he had such a thing, probably his longtime girlfriend knew the combo, had the key, something. Meaning that upon his death, Anya might have quickly grabbed the box before Mother Del or the investigating detectives could get their hands on it. Seed money for her New York ambitions? One last cover-up of her evil boyfriend’s crimes?
So many questions, so few answers.
Which brought her to the BPD field office in Brighton. D.D. walked in, flashed her shield, and was led immediately to the back office, where the head of the district, Captain Wallace, was waiting for her. The captain and a black male detective stood as she walked in.
“Captain.”
“Sergeant Warren.”
They exchanged handshakes. “This is Detective Hank Swetonic, who handled the initial case file.” The captain made the introductions. More hand shaking. Detective Swetonic wasn’t a tall guy, barely topping D.D. by two inches. But the trimly built African American could hold his own in any room. D.D. liked his eyes: thickly lashed and definitely intelligent.
Not the kind of detective to miss the obvious.
“Tough couple of days,” Detective Swetonic commented. The D-14 field office had supplied most of the officers and patrol cars involved in the Amber Alert. For a field office that dealt mostly with burglary, larceny, and vehicle theft, four homicides followed by two shootings in a span of twenty-four hours was definitely a change of pace.
“I’m assuming Phil told you we are interested in a suicide you handled four months ago. Male teen, Roberto Faillon.”
“Yeah, I pulled the records.” Detective Swetonic nodded toward the captain’s desk, where D.D. spied the case file. The captain gestured to an available chair. They all took a seat, D.D. helping herself to the paperwork.
Thin, but about what she’d expected for a case that had initially appeared open and shut.
“Where’d you find the body?” she asked, sifting through the reports till she came to the crime scene photos.
“Community theater building. His girlfriend, Anya Seton, discovered him in one of the dressing rooms after rehearsal. Looks like he shot himself while the rest of them were working on their performances.”
“Did he leave a note?” D.D. asked. She stared at the first crime scene photo. Roberto appeared to be sitting in an old gold-striped recliner, the kind of furniture picked up cheap at a yard sale and hoarded by a small theater fo
r future set pieces. He was wearing a short-sleeved black T-shirt, the graphic front faded to an indistinguishable shadow. One arm hung limply on his lap, his head lolling to the side. Further angles showed a small but distinct entrance wound to his right temple. Small caliber was D.D.’s first thought. Most likely a .22.
Sure enough, following protocol, the scene had been shot with a high-resolution camera, including many close-ups of a .22-caliber handgun dangling from the fingers of his right hand. She also noted a nearly empty bottle of whiskey at the teen’s feet.
“No suicide note,” Detective Swetonic was saying now, “but there were traces of GSR on his right hand consistent with firing a handgun. Also, angle of entry of the wound was consistent with it being self-inflicted. Finally, the tox screen revealed a blood alcohol level of point one five. We interviewed the other members of the theater group. They said Roberto and his girlfriend had been feuding over her relationship with the director. Basically, Roberto had been angry and drinking pretty hard for days. Apparently, when a fifth of whiskey failed to make his problems go away . . .”
“Any witnesses?” D.D. asked.
“No. And no one heard the sound of a gunshot either. Though given the size of the building, that’s not a huge surprise. The place is a bit of a maze, and everyone was focused in the main stage area at the time.”
D.D. nodded. “Any leads on where he got the gun?”
“In that neighborhood, try any street corner.”
“Money?” she asked. “Cash in pockets? Did you go through his possessions at his foster mom’s place, Mother Del’s?”
