“Photos weren’t of Lola.”
“But . . .” Then I got it. What would hurt worse. Not photos of Lola, but of Roxy. “Lola would kill him for that, too,” I said.
“Maybe. But the loser shot himself. Then”—Carmen spread her hands philosophically—“there was no need.”
“And the photos?”
“Died with the SOB. Never heard anything about them again.”
A movement from my left, just up the block. As someone trained to be aware of my surroundings, I half registered it, but the information had surprised me. I was still trying to work out what it meant when: Crack.
Gunshot. Loud. Distinct.
I dropped to the sidewalk, holding tight to both dog leashes, as in front of me girls dove for cover.
“Hijo de puta!” Carmen spat again, flattening to the ground.
A fresh crack. Wooden splinters flying from the stoop. More swearing from the girls. Followed by a rapid succession of boom, boom, boom as the shooter continued firing.
Keeping my head low, I twisted to the left, trying to make out the gunman. There, across the street, two houses up. A hooded figure in a bulky navy blue sweatshirt. I couldn’t see a face. Just long dark hair pouring out from around a pale neck. Clearly a female.
Roxy?
What the hell?
I was still trying to figure it out when the shooter turned and fled.
Chapter 30
WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? COMING down to confront a group of known gang members all by yourself?”
“I brought the dogs—”
“Oh, sure, two elderly blind guard dogs. I stand corrected.”
“We were having a perfect civil conversation—”
“You got shot at!”
“Technically speaking, Carmen Rodriguez—”
“Stop it! Stop excusing your stupidity, stop looking so smug, and for the love of God, stop looking at your phone or I will smash it myself!”
Flora rolled her eyes but obediently slid her phone into her pocket. D.D. could feel a growl coming on. She stalked away. Approached Phil instead.
“Six shots fired,” he rattled off promptly, recognizing the mood. “Target appears to be Carmen Rodriguez, known member of Las Ni?as Diablas, and/or some of her fellow gangbangers. No hits, just minor injuries from flying debris, as the wooden porch sustained most of the damage.”
D.D. glanced at the ambulance double-parked on the sidewalk. A girl with short dark hair and the telltale beauty mark sat in the back. An EMT was applying gauze to her bleeding forearm. The girl stared straight ahead, seemingly uncaring, while four more girls hovered around her. They were all muttering under their breath in Spanish.
Calls for revenge would be D.D.’s first guess. Against a shooter they would never identify to the cops but go after themselves.
She already missed playing catch with Kiko. Not to mention the look of utter adoration this morning when Jack woke up and realized Dog was still there. Alex had been correct: Jack did a dead-on imitation of roo roo roo.
“Casings?” she asked Phil.
“Crime scene has recovered half a dozen across the street. All consistent with a nine millimeter. They are now digging slugs out of the porch to be tested against the ones recovered from the Boyd-Baez scene and Hector Alvalos’s shooting.”
“Witnesses?” D.D. asked.
“Umm . . . you mean ones who might actually talk to cops?”
She glared.
He shrugged. “Door-to-door canvass revealed a lot of neighbors who know nothing about no one. As for Las Ni?as there, I’m guessing they know plenty but will tell us even less. Shooter was across the street, tucked behind a telephone pole, when he-slash-she-slash-it opened fire. Not a great line of sight, which may explain the lack of success hitting the target. Or maybe the shooter was only trying to scare. Who knows?”
D.D. glanced around. “I doubt there are cameras in this neighborhood.”
“There’s a bodega two blocks over that might have a security system. I’ll send over a patrol officer to ask. But no one is sure in which direction the gunman fled, as most of the victims had their heads down by then.”
“Yesterday, after the Alvalos shooting, a female wearing a dark blue hoodie was spotted running away.”
Phil nodded.
“This morning, according to Flora, the shooter was also wearing a dark blue hoodie,” D.D. continued. “Same caliber of gun, same wardrobe. Seems like more than coincidence to me.”
“Roxy Baez?” Phil asked.
“We know from Hector she had reason to doubt his loyalty in the past. He could’ve intervened in family court when Juanita lost custody, but he didn’t. Presumably, Roxy was also unhappy with her sister joining a gang, might even think they have something to do with Lola’s death. Maybe the reason she hasn’t made herself known to the police, despite the Amber Alert, is that she’s decided to exact her own brand of justice first.”
“Her family was shot with a nine millimeter, as well,” Phil pointed out. Meaning they still couldn’t discount Roxy as their killer either.
D.D. nodded. “Yeah. And to say we know what’s going on here, or with Roxanna Baez, would definitely be an overstatement. Here’s a thought: Yesterday Flora mentioned that Roxy carries a light blue backpack. We also recovered a thread consistent with such a bag from the vacant office space across from the coffee shop. Flora suggested we check video cameras from the coffee shop area to see if the infamous girl in the navy blue hoodie was carrying such a pack when she fled the Alvalos scene. Any luck with that project?”
“We have two detectives reviewing footage,” Phil reported. “But haven’t heard back. Let me put in a call.”
D.D. nodded. She glanced at the ambulance again. The huddle of Hispanic girls, fussing and muttering among themselves. What the hell. She strolled on over.
“Backpack. Baby blue. Which one of you has it?”
The standing girls turned first, staring at her in confusion. D.D. knew minions when she saw them and not just because Jack was obsessed with those movies. She focused her attention on Carmen Rodriguez, who was waiting for the EMT to finish bandaging her arm.
“Roxy always had a baby-blue backpack,” the gang leader said.
“First shot was fired. You heard it. Did what?”
“Ducked,” Carmen replied flatly.
“Really? City girl like you. How many times have you heard gunfire by now?”
“Enough.”
“Enough not to panic? Enough not to be scared?”
“I don’t panic. I’m never scared.”
“In other words, you didn’t just duck. You looked.”
Carmen stared at her. Paramedic patted her on the shoulder, told her he was done. Carmen never even glanced at him but kept her gaze on D.D.
“I ducked, and I looked.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Just a figure. Across the street. Dark sweatshirt. Hood up. Could’ve been anyone.”
“With long dark hair?”
Carmen smiled, raked her uninjured hand through her own short do. “Guess for once, that rules me out.”
“Color,” D.D. commanded softly, “of the sweatshirt?”
“Navy blue.”
“Wording? Logo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Patriots? Didn’t stare that hard.”
“Pants?”
“Jeans. Light blue. Skinny legs.” Carmen frowned, one of her first genuine displays of emotion. “Hoodie made the shooter seem big. But the legs . . . Definitely a skinny dude.”
“Or dudette.”
Fresh shrug. Game face back on.
“Shoes?”
“Wasn’t looking that low. Kept my eyes on the gun.”
“Color?” D.D. requested again. “Anywhere around the shooter. Patch of green weeds, backdrop of gray buildings. Think of the shooter. What colors do you see?”
Carmen didn’t answer right away. Because she was honestly considering the question? Or crafting her next lie?
“Navy blue,” the gang leader said at last. “Heavy dark blue hoodie. That’s all I got.”
“No light blue backpack?”
“Nope.”
“After the shooting, what did the suspect do with the gun?”
“Stuck it in her pocket and ran.”
“Her pocket?” D.D. grinned.
“Hey, you said dudette, not me.”
But D.D. already didn’t believe her. She left the crew and returned to Flora Dane, her wayward CI.
? ? ?