“Across the street. Before you ask—her kitchen is in the rear of the apartment, so she says she couldn’t see anything.”
“Mmm-hmm.” D.D. was already suspicious. “Any other calls come in to nine-one-one around this time?”
“Two more.”
“All right, let’s identify those neighbors, separate them out from the herd for further questioning, including Mrs. Sanchez. I want to know exactly what they heard and saw—or maybe didn’t see—so we can build a timeline of events. Detective Manley have any luck with vets?”
“Yes.” Phil flipped through his spiral notepad. “A Dr. Jo, who has a clinic near St. Elizabeth’s. According to her records, both dogs are up to date on their shots and vaccines. Boyd didn’t have them chipped as, given their age and eyesight, they’re not known for roaming. Sweet dogs, she says. Shy and noise-sensitive. Rosie’s the leader of the two; she only lost her eyesight recently. Blaze is in the habit of following her. So if something spooked Rosie—”
“Say, gunfire.”
“—she would bolt, Blaze would follow.”
“How would blind dogs run away?” D.D. asked. “I mean, how can they tell where to run to?”
“Apparently, on their own turf, you’d never know they were sight-challenged. Assuming the kids took the dogs for walks in the neighborhood . . .”
“They’d follow a trail they already knew. Front gate would have to be open for them to escape the yard, however.”
D.D. eyed the fence lining the rear of the property. Old and weathered, it was a good six feet tall and filled with solid wood slats, no doubt built for privacy. Two elderly Brittany spaniels would never be able to clear it, no matter how startled. In contrast, the chain-link fence encircling the sides and front of the tiny house was only waist-high—probably installed by Charlie Boyd just for the dogs. Again, she doubted two old spaniels could jump it, but the front gate didn’t have a lock. If it had been left ajar by their shooter, on his or her way up to the front door . . .
She wondered how Alex and Jack were doing with their mission. Were they, even now, proud owners of a puppy? Would it prefer lounging on the back porch on sunny days? Or would it be content hanging out in the house, say, eating D.D.’s considerable collection of shoes?
“I’m thinking the shooter came in the front door,” Phil was saying. “Walked straight into the family room, took out Charlie Boyd first, three shots to the chest.”
D.D. nodded. Given the position of Charlie Boyd’s body, that made sense. Poor guy had never even made it off the sofa. One second he’d been watching TV and the next . . .
“Shooter walks in through the front gate,” she concurred with Phil. “Doesn’t bother to close it behind him or her.”
“Because this is all going to be quick,” Phil agreed.
“Front door of the home is unlocked? Or someone let the shooter in?”
“Unknown. In this neighborhood, most people probably do keep their doors locked. But a sunny Saturday morning, maybe Roxy had just left with the dogs . . .”
“TBD,” D.D. agreed. And an important to-be-determined as the lack of a forced entry combined with Charlie’s seated position on the sofa implied that the shooter had walked right into the residence. A friend or family member strolling casually into the family room. Hey, Charlie . . .
She had many questions for the neighbors gathered on the street.
But for now, she continued: “After Charlie’s shot . . .”
“Shooter heads into the kitchen. Takes out Juanita Baez, who’s in the middle of unloading groceries and is just now having one of those ‘Did I hear what I think I heard?’ moments when boom, boom, boom, she’s down, too.”
“Leaves two targets,” D.D. said softly.
Phil sighed heavily. Father of four, married to his high school sweetheart—these kinds of cases took their toll. “Clearly, Lola and Manny have enough time to process what’s happening and move past denial.”
“Baby brother runs to his big sister’s room.”
“They try to hide.”
“Doesn’t work,” D.D. murmured, then frowned. “Shooter doesn’t have to go upstairs. In this scenario, the kids haven’t seen anything. Shooter could continue straight out the back door, cleaner escape, bigger lead time before the cops arrive.”
“Maybe one of the kids was on the stairs, saw something. Then the shooter had no choice but to chase after.”
“Or heard something,” D.D. tried out. “Say, Roxy’s voice talking to her coconspirator.”
“Assuming she had help.”
“In situations where the teenage daughter is in on the murder of her family, the girl rarely acts alone. There’s a druggie boyfriend, Mom and Dad hate him, but he’s the only one who ever understood her. Or a sadistic friend saying she’s gotta do equally evil things just to prove she belongs. Or maybe there were drugs in the house.” D.D. shrugged. “The friends knew and wanted them, hence taking out the parents, then Roxy’s siblings when they saw or heard too much. At this point, all we have is Hector Alvalos’s impressions of Roxanna Baez, and for the past five years he hasn’t even been part of the family. Kids hide enough from the parents they live with. It would be nothing for Roxy to keep Hector in the dark.”
“She doesn’t have a social media footprint,” Phil said.
“What?”
“No Instagram, no Snapchat, no Twitter, no hangout apps. Lola Baez, yes. But we can’t find any evidence of a social media life for Roxy.”
D.D. frowned. “That’s not normal.”
“To add to the puzzle, I just did a quick check: The computer browser was cleared at two A.M. last night, and substantial amounts of the hard drive wiped. So while we are seeing internet postings from Lola Baez, the only activity is from first thing this morning.”
“Someone’s trying to cover their tracks.” D.D. looked at Phil. “Most likely Roxanna Baez, whose lack of social media accounts indicates a certain level of paranoia right there.” She took it one step further: “Something happened in the middle of Friday night that was serious enough that Roxy did her best to delete all traces of computer memory. And then, what? First thing this morning, she works on erasing her entire family? Who is this girl?”
Phil could only shrug. “We’re beyond my detective-grade tech savvy. Computer geeks will have to take it from here.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Nothing against the tech geeks, who were brilliant, but more experts meant more time, the one resource they didn’t have right now.
“Any other devices we should know about?” D.D. asked.
D.D. and Phil had recently attended a class on home electronics and how they could be used to assist in a murder investigation. From the digital water meter that showed a guy using hundreds of gallons of water at three in morning—helping to prove the prosecutor’s argument that he was hosing blood off his back patio—to so-called smart appliances such as refrigerators, Amazon’s Echo device, et cetera, et cetera, which recorded short periods of time throughout the day, homeowners had placed themselves under more voluntary surveillance than most understood. Basically, that snapshot the smart fridge took to help you figure out what fruit to buy might also include a view of your ex-husband’s dead body, which you’d planned on burying later in the day with the shovel Alexa had ordered for you from Amazon.
Every time D.D. thought her job couldn’t get any weirder, it did.
“Nothing too high-tech,” Phil reported. “Just the smartphones, two home computers, and an Xbox.”
D.D. arched a brow at the mention of the gaming system.