“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. She 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.