In the past few years, the Boston Police Department had joined the rest of the planet and embraced social media. Facebook page, Twitter handle, its own news site, BPDNews.com. Crazier yet, it seemed to be working. Post a grainy black-and-white security video of a break-in, and within thirty minutes the BPD’s page would receive three or four posts with the suspect’s name. Why send detectives knocking on neighbors’ doors when a media relations officer could transmit the same information straight into every single person’s living room with a fraction of the time and effort? D.D. suspected they were one step away from RoboCop.
But that day wasn’t today, so she still had her job to do.
“Inside the residence we have two computers, four cell phones. Phil is working with Facebook now, requesting access to the mother’s account. Next he’ll contact Apple.”
Facebook allowed police emergency access to a person’s page as long as the company received a signed affidavit promising a warrant within twenty-four hours. Very convenient in this day and age when a motive or even murder suspect was often just one Facebook post away.
Apple, on the other hand, took longer to crack. While the family’s local phone carrier could release text and voice mail messages from the family’s mobiles, that information didn’t include iMessages—any texts sent between one Apple device and another. Given how many people owned iPhones, that meant a substantial number of the messages could remain missing. Savvy detectives started their paperwork early when they needed information from Apple, especially in a time-sensitive situation such as a missing kid.
“Relatives, nosy neighbors?” Horgan asked.
“Working on it. Have asked Detective Manley to contact the girl’s school when she’s done with vets. With any luck, Phil’s search of social media posts and Carol’s outreach with the school will yield some crossover names—Roxanna’s inner circle. That’s who we’ll hit next.”
“Don’t forget enemies,” Horgan advised. “Friends cover for each other. Whereas the mean girl on Snapchat, she’ll give you the inside dirt. Which is exactly the kind of intel we need.”
“Yeah, yeah, friends, frenemies, got it.”
“Cousins,” he continued. “Especially any near her in age. Aunts and uncles might feel like they have to cover for their siblings. Cousins are more mercenary.”
“Wow, never thought I’d be so happy I don’t have any.”
“Background on the family?”
“The mother, Juanita, worked as a nurse, has a history of alcoholism. Boyfriend, Charlie, was a local contractor without so much as a speeding ticket. No evidence of drugs or a high-risk lifestyle. I don’t know. At the moment . . . they look like a family. Her kids, his dogs. Working hard today, hoping for a better time tomorrow.”
“All families have secrets,” Horgan informed her. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”
“Wait, you’re paid big bucks? Cuz last time I looked at my check . . .”
She and Horgan finished working out the details. Of the task force that would now be assembled. Of the hotline that would have to be set up to handle the flood of calls from the Amber Alert. Of the press conference Horgan would be giving, along with media relations officer Chip Laskin, because there was no way D.D. could spare the time. Of the need for even more bodies. A team to follow up with mass transit, given the number of bus lines and T stops within walking distance of the Boyd-Baez residence. More detectives to approach local businesses and nearby homes for possible security camera footage. If they could capture a glimpse of Roxanna Baez walking her dogs past an ATM, or running from a strange man down a cross street, or giggling with a group of friends at a bus stop . . .
Plenty of options for leads, plenty of avenues worth investigating in an area as densely populated as Brighton. D.D. didn’t need more ideas for locating a missing teen. She needed more hours in a day.
D.D. ended the call. Got back to work.
? ? ?
THEIR FIRST BREAK CAME MINUTES later, but not the way D.D. would’ve liked.
“Manny! My son, my son! Manny, where’s Manny! What happened to my son! Maaaannny!”
D.D. arrived at the front door just in time to watch a big guy with dark hair and a menacing scar down his left cheek careen around two approaching officers and go barreling into the uniform with the murder book. Both crashed to the ground with other officers rushing to assist.
More screaming, some shouts and calls from the neighbors. “Hector, calm down!”
“Don’t hurt him!”
“Hey, that’s Manny’s dad. Let him go. He just wants to know about his kid.”
D.D. waded into the fray. She might not have had bulk on her side, having one of those high-powered metabolisms that kept her wiry in good times and gaunt in bad, but she was a mother. Past experience had taught her that everyone, even oversized brutes, had been trained since birth to obey Mom.
She grabbed the big guy by his arm and dragged him out of the pile. “You! What’s your name, sir?”
“Manny!” he cried, eyes still wild. “My son! Mrs. Sanchez called me. She told me shots were fired. She told me they are dead. Manny!”
“Name, sir. What is your name?”
“Hector Alvalos!” one of the neighbors called out while the big guy nodded frantically.
“You’re Manny’s father? You knew Juanita Baez?”
“My son!”
“All right, all right. Let’s go someplace quieter where we can talk.”
D.D. nodded at the murder book officer, who was now back on his feet, brushing himself off. He kept a wary eye on Hector Alvalos, but appeared no worse for the wear. Given the circumstances, the officer would be within his rights to press charges. But the officer merely jerked his head toward the rear of the property, D.D.’s best option for a meeting spot clear of gawking locals and busy crime scene techs.
Keeping a tight grip on Hector’s bulging arm, D.D. led him around the house, feeling Hector squeeze his shoulders to fit in the tight space between the fixer-upper home and its towering neighbors. She stopped in the stamp-sized backyard, noting for the first time the raised garden bed, overgrown with the straggling remains of herbs and tomatoes this late in the fall. Phil was already on the back porch, positioned next to two metal dog bowls, waiting for them.
“Repeat your name,” D.D. instructed firmly. Hector seemed to be calmer now, taking deep breaths as Phil activated his recorder.
“Hector Alvalos,” he mumbled.
“And what is your relation to the Baez family?”
“Juanita and I used to live together. Manny is my son.”
“Start at the beginning, Mr. Alvalos. Tell us everything.”
Hector, it turned out, was a bartender. He’d met Juanita ten years ago at a local watering hole. They’d hooked up a couple of times, then moved in together when Juanita discovered she was pregnant with Manny. From the very beginning, it had been a turbulent relationship. A family of soon-to-be-five crammed into a one-bedroom place. The girls sleeping in the family room. A heavily pregnant Juanita wedged into the lone bedroom with Hector.
Tempers had been high. Their major hobby tequila. Which had led to fights, then tears, followed by more fights and more tears.
“We were both drinking too much,” Hector said heavily. “It wasn’t good. I know that now.”
“What happened?” D.D. asked.
The big guy shrugged. He was wearing an open red-checked flannel shirt over a stained blue T-shirt and jeans. It looked to D.D. like he’d just rolled from bed. If he was still working nights as a bartender, maybe he had.
“Manny was born. Place got more crowded. Less sleep. Juanita . . . She was angry all the time. Seemed like I couldn’t do anything right. So I worked more. Drank more. Then five years ago . . . I couldn’t take it. We had a big fight. Juanita was screaming. The kids were screaming. I . . . I punched a wall. Put my fist right through it.” Hector rubbed his knuckles as if in memory. “I knew I did wrong. I could see it, on my boy’s face. He was scared of me. I took off. Just hit the stairs, kept running.”
D.D. waited.
“I heard later . . . Juanita didn’t take it well. Drank harder. There was some drama. Family services was called, but I’m not sure what happened. I’d left town and Manny doesn’t remember much. But Juanita lost custody of the kids. She had to do court-ordered counseling, join AA. Then she got the kids back—”