by Lisa Gardner
“We found about ten bucks in his pocket, so if he’d had cash, he’d spent it. I did pay a visit to the foster mom. Can’t say she seemed that shaken up about his death. Couple of the younger kids, however, definitely perked up.”
“We’ve heard Roberto was a bully,” D.D. supplied.
“Ditto. I believe his guidance counselor used the term angry young man. In his room, we found a storage box. Some photos, that kind of thing. But no large supplies of cash.”
“What kind of photos?”
“Pages from an old scrapbook with baby photos. Probably his own. Some more recent shots of him and his girlfriend. You know, walking around Boston, standing in front of the swan boats, lovers-out-and-about-town sort of stuff.”
“Anything questionable? We heard he’d shared a nude photo of one of his classmates on the internet.”
“Heard the same from the guidance counselor. A Ms. Lobdell Cass?”
D.D. nodded.
“So, the one thing that stood out from the crime scene: no cell phone. Not on the body, not in the dressing room, not in his bedroom. But of course the kid had to have had a phone, given the accounts from school.”
“Someone took his phone before you got there,” D.D. filled in.
“I’m guessing the girlfriend, probably to protect him if there were questionable photos involved. She let us search her and her belongings while we were there. We didn’t discover Roberto’s phone, but that’s hardly a surprise. The theater building is an old church overstuffed with props, costumes, you name it. There’s a million places she could’ve stashed the phone before we arrived.”
“Follow up with the cell phone carrier?” D.D. asked.
“Sure. Got a transcript of Roberto’s final texts, phone messages. Mostly exchanges with Anya, and yeah, he didn’t like all the attention theater director Doug de Vries was paying to her. Roberto definitely felt threatened. Which, again, led to his suicide.”
“Did Roberto own a computer? A laptop, anything?” D.D. asked.
“No. Used the computer lab at school. That is, when he bothered to attend.”
D.D. pursed her lips, considering. “We have allegations he had abused some of the girls in foster care,” she said.
Detective Swetonic nodded. “Other than distraught girlfriend Anya, who swore Roberto was the great love of her life—theater director Doug notwithstanding—we couldn’t find anyone with a good thing to say about the teen.”
“Given the reports of the photo he posted, I was wondering if there were more pictures where that came from. That maybe, in addition to abuse, Roberto was also engaged in selling porn, that kind of thing.”
The detective shrugged. “We didn’t find any evidence, though I’ll be the first to say we didn’t see a need to go full bore on a suicide. But the lack of a computer . . . What kind of porn distributor doesn’t have his own computer?”
D.D. nodded. It was a major weakness in her argument. “What about a gaming system?” she asked, which could be used to hide inappropriate photos.
But the detective shook his head.
“He could’ve been using his phone,” she tried again. “Working off photos stashed in the cloud, that sort of thing.”
Another shrug. “You can review the transcripts from the cell phone carrier, but we didn’t find any hint of those kinds of transactions. Not to mention, where’s the money trail? Kid had ten bucks in his pocket. That’s it.”
“Where’d he get that money?”
“Worked part-time at a deli across from the school. Not an inspired worker, according to his boss, any more than he was an inspired student. But he earned a couple hundred a month. Most of which, I’m guessing, he blew on his girlfriend and beer.”
“Don’t suppose you kept the gun?” D.D. asked.
The detective shook his head; the captain, as well. She’d known it was a long shot. If the police kept all evidence from all cases, there wouldn’t be enough storage in Boston. Instead, protocol was to photograph, photograph, photograph. Which, with today’s high-resolution cameras, captured more information than people might think.
She returned to the close-up image of the near-empty whiskey bottle. “Did you run the print on the glass?” she asked, studying the picture more closely.
“No. Didn’t see the need.”
“Looks like there might be one that’s usable,” she said, holding out the photo. The bottle had been dusted in situ. She could just make out a faint ridge pattern, captured by the high-res image. Given the difficulty of lifting prints off of certain surfaces, latent prints had moved to working more and more off photos. Recovered fingerprints were basically turned into digital images to be loaded into databases anyway. Working straight off close-ups from the crime scene basically eliminated the middle man, which also led to faster processing time.
Detective Swetonic took the photo from her, then held it out to the captain. They both nodded.
“What about the gun?” she asked now, flipping through more photos.
“His prints were on it,” Detective Swetonic supplied immediately.
“And the recovered brass?”
The detective and captain exchanged a glance again. D.D. understood the look: The detective was busy. He’d followed basic investigative steps, and when the results continued to point at the same conclusion . . .
She found the photo she wanted, a high-res close-up of the recovered shell casing, also dusted and documented at the scene. Like the whiskey bottle, it bore a distinct ridge pattern. D.D. pulled the image, placed it next to the one of the fifth of whiskey.
“Advantage of the Amber Alert,” D.D. stated now. “I have the city’s full investigative and forensic resources at my disposal.” Meaning she could demand a rush job on the print identification in both photos and it would come out of her budget, not the captain’s.
As she suspected, Captain Wallace liked those terms. “We’ll send in the digital copies of both the bottle and shell casing ASAP. Mind us asking what you hope to find, though?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly. “But the family that was murdered yesterday, their daughter, Lola, was allegedly one of Roberto’s victims. While Anya Seton swears Lola had something to do with Roberto’s death. Which means the Boyd-Baez shootings might be connected to whatever happened to Roberto four months ago.”
“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. Sh
e 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 . . .”
“Would never be able to spot you walking away down a separate street. Smart thinking.”
“I gave her my ball cap and jacket. Figured if someone was paying attention, they’d see one girl in my clothes walk in the front, would figure it was the same female exiting. The theater has a lot of costumes. I tucked my hair up, went with a man’s blazer, worked on my slouch.”
I nodded. Sarah was skinny. She could probably pass for a teenage boy. I noticed for the first time a small pile of discarded clothes next to the wall. Their hats and coats from earlier, shed the moment they walked in the door. Peeking out from the bottom of the pile was the red-and-black scarf Roxy had mentioned buying. I picked it up, then, after another moment’s consideration, stuffed it in my own bag. Sarah didn’t say anything.
“How did you get from there to here?” I asked.
“We walked to a corner coffee shop, where I called Uber. I didn’t notice anyone get into a vehicle as our car pulled away from the curb. And I kept an eye out. Whole trip. I never spotted anyone following us.”
“You have the driver deliver you straight here?”
“No. He dropped us at the public library. We walked the rest of the way here.”
I nodded, suitably impressed. “Well done. Sounds to me like you covered all the bases. There’s nothing to tie you to Roxy or Roxy to you. We haven’t even posted to the group since this whole thing started.”
Sarah nodded. We’d never explicitly talked about it, but had reached the mutual decision to go dark after seeing the Amber Alert first thing yesterday morning. Support groups were built on trust, and yet all of us did have trust issues. Besides, Sarah was the only member of our band of misfits who’d ever met Roxy. My reaching out to Sarah had been enough of a stretch. No need to involve the others.
“I should grab some food,” Sarah was saying now, more to herself than to me. “I don’t even have orange juice. And when Roxanna does wake up, she’s probably going to be hungry.”
“For anything but a protein bar,” I agreed. “Roxy’s going to sleep for a bit. Running to the corner mart and back will take you, what, twenty minutes? You should be fine.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I’ll follow your lead. Walk the dogs to the public library, as their pictures were on the news yesterday, too. Grab an Uber there, and head back to Brighton to the school guidance counselor’s house. I have some more questions for her.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know yet. But Ms. Lobdell Cass knows all the players involved. And I still can’t help thinking there’s something she’s not saying. I just don’t know if it’s because she’s trying to help someone or because she’s frightened of someone.”
“Who would a school counselor be afraid of?”
“Please—an entire school of troubled teens? I would fear them all.”
I felt self-conscious the moment the Uber driver crossed the line into Brighton. Anxious and hypervigilant. Like a suspect returning to the scene of the crime. I wondered how Roxy and Lola had done it last year. Trying not to ruin their mom’s newfound happiness as she excitedly moved them into her boyfriend’s house, only a mile from a place they’d sworn never to think about, never to talk about, ever again.
Then having to show up to a new school where their former tormentors walked the halls.
Judging by what Roxy had said, they’d never spoken up. Never revealed the truth to their mom. Their silence was their way of protecting her. While she had started digging into the mess as a way of belatedly protecting them. Each of them trying to do what she thought was best. All of them failing in the end.
My mother and I weren’t so different. All these years later, there were still things we didn’t discuss. The four hundred and seventy-two days hadn’t just been my ordeal but hers as well.
One of the biggest lessons I’d had to learn after returning home was to let my mom hug me. To understand that even if it made me flinch, she needed the contact. After everything she’d been through, she needed to hold her little girl again.
I wondered if L
ola or Roxy gave their mother that chance. Or if, after their year at Mother Del’s, they, too, had retreated inside a hardened shell.
I couldn’t blame my mother for my kidnapping. She could blame me for my stupidity, but I couldn’t blame her. For Roxy and Lola, that equation was much more complicated. And yet forgiveness was forgiveness. Where would any of us be without it?
I had the driver drop me off directly in front of Tricia Lobdell Cass’s place. By now, I’d been there so often, it was hardly a secret.
I handed over a generous tip for allowing the dogs, then exited onto the sidewalk, helping Blaze and Rosie out behind me. They sniffed the air, gave two faint tail wags. For blind dogs, they got a sense of location quick enough.
When I looked up, Tricia stood in the open door, already waiting for me. And I thought again that she looked nervous, held herself too tightly for someone whose involvement should be purely professional.
I took one last deep breath. Then the dogs and I got on with it.
• • •
TRICIA LED THE DOGS AND me through her first-floor apartment. There was a small kitchen in the back. She nudged two metal food bowls with her foot, and the dogs figured out the rest on their own. There was also a giant bowl of water.
“Any luck?” she asked.
She stood across from the kitchen table. A small, square barrier between her and me. I felt that prickle of hyperawareness again. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. The kitchen had a rear door leading to the outside. The glass pane at the top allowed light, but afforded only a small view of the yard.
I moved closer to the dogs, where I could keep my gaze on the back door to my right and the kitchen entrance to my left.
“I got shot at,” I said, glancing at the counselor to gauge her reaction. She had long dark hair. I wondered why I’d never considered that before.
She flinched. Genuine surprise? Or a spike of anxiety?
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. Las Niñas Diablas are fine, too. A little pissed. Not too cooperative with the police, mostly because I’m sure they plan on hunting down the gunwoman and extracting their own brand of retribution. Nervous?” I asked.
