“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?”
“According to the rumor mill.”
“State bureaucrats don’t usually go around killing off potential lawsuits,” Alex said.
“No, but the people who risked being exposed in such a lawsuit might not be so squeamish about it. We visited the foster care home, Mother Del’s, today. That place gave me the heebie-jeebies. What if it is a front for some kind of child sex ring? Now, there would be plenty of people with motive to keep things quiet.”
“We won’t be seeing you tomorrow,” Alex said.
“No, I’m sorry.” D.D. looked down. Kiko was licking her fingers where she’d been holding the treat. The dog’s touch was very gentle. D.D. stroked her ears again. Earned a tentative tail wag.
“Somehow, I doubt Jack will miss me,” she said ruefully, admiring the latest member of their family.
“But he will always love you. And, most likely, send you dozens of photos before the day is done.”
D.D. smiled. “That would be nice.”
“Do you have any sense of how this is going to play out?” Alex asked. “How long can one teenager remain missing in a city with eyes and ears everywhere?”
D.D. shook her head. “Honestly, with this girl? This case? I have no idea what’s gonna happen next.”
Chapter 26
I RETURNED TO SARAH’S APARTMENT shortly after midnight. I’d breezed by the hospital to learn that Hector Alvalos was still there, asleep, in stable condition. I’d also counted a number of uniformed patrol officers, clearly keeping an eye out. I was tempted to nod to each and every one of them, investigator to investigator. But I didn’t know if my new role as CI actually garnered me any respect from other cops.
Next I returned to the coffee shop where the shooting had taken place, then headed to the empty office space across the street. Doubling back was a time-honored technique used by many a prey to avoid the hunt. But the space was dark and empty. No sign of Roxanna Baez anywhere.
There was only one other place I could think of to check for the missing teen. Not the smartest choice, but then, sometimes you just couldn’t help yourself.
I walked to Roxy Baez’s home.
The sidewalk in front of the house was empty of people, but a memorial had been started on the fence line. One of those spontaneous collections of flowers, candles, stuffed animals, often left in the wake of a tragedy. I spied a soccer ball, some toy cars, several handwritten notes: You are forever in our hearts, et cetera, et cetera. Then, tucked in the corner, nearly lost under a bouquet of carnations, a glass bottle. Tequila. Never opened.
I hunched down, inspected it closer.
Who’d left a bottle of booze at a memorial for a murdered alcoholic? An old drinking buddy? One of Juanita Baez’s AA friends?
What did it mean anyway? One last toast to a fallen comrade? Or drunks got what they deserved?
I looked up and down the street. But this time of night, all the houses were quiet. Nothing stirred.
I wondered if Roxanna Baez had stopped by. If grief had driven her to this scene. If she’d stood here, wondering about her family’s last moments. Was she grateful that she’d been out walking the dogs? Or was she sorry she’d been gone? Because if she’d been in the home, maybe she would’ve been able to stop the shooter? Or at least join her family’s fate?
I didn’t know. The girl had only become part of our group recently, and all of us still had more questions than answers. Such was the nature of survivors. We doled out our stories slowly, over time. Even for ourselves, some experiences were too much to be shared all at once.
With the streets quiet and my only good ideas exhausted, I headed to Sarah’s apartment. I half expected to walk through the door and find Roxy, but no, there was only Sarah, sitting at the tiny table, typing briskly on her laptop.
“Mike Davis?” I asked. Sarah and I rarely bothered with small talk.
“Followed him to Starbucks. When he didn’t come outside again, I thought I’d lost him. But it turns out he works there as a barista. I left him foaming his hundredth latte. No way I can hang out for an entire shift without him wising up.”
I nodded, pulled out the chair across from her. “I walked by Roxy’s house. Neighbors have started a memorial at the fence line. Someone left a bottle of cheap tequila. Who leaves booze for a dead alcoholic?”
“Edgy choice,” Sarah said, still typing away.
“Exactly my thought. So who has cause to be mad at Juanita Baez?”
“Clearly, someone who was impacted by her drinking.”
“You mean other than her kids, who were taken away and stuck in foster care because their mom couldn’t get her act together?”
“I’d be pissed about that,” Sarah agreed. “But what are the odds of Roxy having the time to buy a bottle of tequila and then sneak back to the one place in the city with the highest concentration of cops looking for her and get away with it?”
“Juanita Baez was asking questions about the time Roxy and Lola spent at foster care. Maybe those questions were raising hackles. I got to talk to another one of their fellow foster mates tonight. Her name is Anya and let’s just say she’s not the happiest girl in town.”
“She’s from the same place Mike Davis lives?”
“Yep. The infamous Mother Del’s.”
“Interesting.”
“Apparently just the kind of loving environment to drive Lola Baez to join a gang and seek revenge on the head bully, the recently deceased Roberto.”
“Lola Baez was part of a gang?”
“Hispanic girl gang. Las Ni?as Diablas.” I paused. “Could they have been the ones to leave the tequila? Toast to a fallen comrade?” I shook my head. There were still too many things I didn’t know.
Sarah was staring at me. “That would explain all the posts in Spanish.”
“Posts?”
“The virtual memorial I created, remember? So we could track visiting IP addresses.”
Of course. Sarah angled her laptop toward me. I eyed the screen, which seemed to be an endless scroll of posts.
“Very active,” Sarah confirmed. “Some seem to be strangers, drawn to the tragedy of a family being gunned down. But also some of the coworkers from Juanita’s hospital, contractors, clients who worked with the guy Charlie. Some of Manny’s classmates, a couple of teachers. But then, all this stuff in Spanish. I’ve been running them through Google Translate.”
“What do they talk about?”
“Revenge.”
I paused, studied the screen. “As in they got revenge? That’s why they shot Lola? Or they now want revenge?”
“As in they’re now seeking it. Against”—Sarah had to click over to a new screen—“Las Malvadas. Which loosely translates to the Fiends.”
“So we have the Devil Girls versus the Fiends?”
“Sounds better in Spanish.”
I frowned, tapped the table. “What do we know about either gang?”
“Umm, working on that. Gangs seem to operate on a feeder system. You know, first you’re a Cub Scout, then a Boy Scout? Well, thirteen-year-olds start out as, say, Devil Girls, earning their stripes before joining the higher-ranking organization, Las Diablas, which is the female counterpart to Los Diablos.”
“How do you earn your stripes?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew.
“Sex and violence. Mostly on behalf of the parent organizations, so to speak. In general, it sounds like the female gang members exist to, um, service the men—”