He bounced two times quick.
“Is that when you two decided something must be done? Roberto had already destroyed enough lives. Five years later, still hurting Lola and Roxy. And now going after someone as nice as Ms. Lobdell Cass.”
“We hated him,” Mike stated abruptly. “Some people are made for hating. Roberto was made for hating.”
“Anya thinks Lola and her gang arranged for Roberto’s suicide. But I spoke to them this morning. They say they didn’t do it, and I believe them. It was you and Roxy, wasn’t it? Roberto had to be stopped. And Ex-lax and sleeping pills weren’t going to be enough this time.”
Mike wouldn’t look at me. He jiggled his legs. He drummed his fingers. In his own way, I thought, this was as close to a confession as we were ever going to get.
“Have you seen Anya this morning?” I asked.
He jerked his attention back to me. “What?”
“Anya. Someone took a shot at me while I was talking to Lola’s gang a few hours ago. The shooter missed. I didn’t have time for a close enough look before she ran away.”
Mike flinched.
“Maybe when you went to the theater this morning, you saw Anya? Getting supplies—say, a brunette wig?”
He shook his head.
“Mike, Anya blames Lola and Roxy for everything. In her mind, they took the love of her life from her.”
Another head shake, as if trying to ward off my words.
I tried again. “She’s been plotting revenge ever since—”
“She didn’t love him.”
“Who? Anya didn’t love Roberto?”
“She used him. He used her. That is not love.”
“To be honest, for some people, it’s close enough.”
“She has the director now. She doesn’t need Roberto anymore. Just ask Lola.”
The way Mike said that drew me up short. “What do you mean, ‘ask Lola’?”
“She knew Anya was with the director. She saw them together. In the theater. Naughty, naughty.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.
I think I got it. “Lola wanted revenge. She wanted to make Anya pay for everything she and Roberto had done. But Roberto was dead. So Lola went after Doug de Vries instead?”
“Lola took pictures. Lola sent pictures. Friday night. Roxy found them on the computer. Lola and the fat director. Ugly photos. Disturbing.” Mike frowned. “Roxy had to purge everything. She called me for help. I am good at computers. For Roxy, I came. For Roxy, I helped.”
“But you could only clear the computer’s memory, right? The pictures that were already sent . . . What goes out on the internet stays there.” A concept I knew too well.
He shrugged. “Roxy cried. She told Lola she was better than this. Lola told her to stop pretending. Roxy told her she couldn’t keep saving her. Lola told her she didn’t want to be saved. Lola left. Roxy did not talk any more. She sat in their room. She looked so sad. Once, I could help her. But not anymore. Once, we could save each other.” He paused, looked at me. “Not anymore.”
I understood. Five years later, Roxy and Lola’s world wasn’t getting better but worse.
Forget Roberto and Anya and their acts of revenge. Lola had debased herself with the theater director, then distributed exploitive photos of herself on their home computer. It was one thing for Roxy to try to save her younger sister from two older, bigger bullies. But how could you save someone from herself?
Then, on the heels of that thought: “Lola didn’t just send the picture to Doug de Vries, did she? She also sent them to Anya.”
“Revenge must be revenge, or it isn’t sweet.”
Anya had implied to D.D. and me that she’d been with Doug during the time of the shooting. But he was hardly a reliable alibi. Given the existence of incriminating images, he’d say anything to keep Anya on his side. He needed her help for the cover-up. Meaning Anya could’ve donned the costume of her choice from the theater, walked to the Boyd-Baez house, and opened fire.
Was that her real self? I wondered. The woman who’d walked from room to room, calmly eliminating her targets. Until she reached the upstairs and zeroed in on her final enemy. Or had she approached the whole exercise as a role? Anya Seton, playing Female Kick-Ass Assassin in this morning’s performance of Vengeance Is Mine?
Did either way make it any less scary?
My phone rang in my pocket. I almost didn’t answer it, then realized it was Sarah. I hit the accept button, placing it to my ear impatiently.
“Yes?”
“She’s gone.”
“What?”
“Roxanna. She was here, still asleep on the sofa, when I returned with the groceries. I set out some food. Then I thought I’d take a few minutes to shower. Five at the most. When I came back out . . . Her bag is gone, too. She took everything with her.”
“Okay. Contact Sergeant Warren—”
“She just called. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.”
“You might as well tell her. We’re going to need her help.”
“Do you know where she went, what she’s doing?”
“I think so.” I looked directly at Mike Davis as I spoke. “Roxy’s heading back to the theater. She believes Anya murdered her family. And now, Roxanna is looking to even the score.”
Chapter 38
D.D. APPROACHED THE COMMUNITY THEATER building, lights off. If Roxy was already there, preparing to ambush Anya, D.D. didn’t want to spook her. Also, she had no idea about possible theater rehearsals, other people being present. The last thing she needed was a hostage situation involving the lone survivor of a family massacre and an equally vengeful target.
She had issued a BOLO for Anya Seton. Now, D.D. slowed her vehicle, driving by the front of the building while trying to search for any sign of activity.
She didn’t know much about the community theater. It looked like a former church, tall and plain as many of the historic houses of worship were. The white front featured chipping paint and a pair of recessed doors that formed an arch. One of the doors appeared to be cracked open.
Given the bright, sunny day, it was impossible to tell if any interior lights were on. D.D. didn’t see actors coming or going or people milling about out front, but that didn’t mean anything. Chances were, a building of this size could be filled with dozens of aspiring thespians, let alone two girls engaged in the final act of a five-years-running play.
She turned the corner, went around the block. And immediately spied a silver Honda sedan parked down a narrow backstreet at the rear of the church. The plate read: DRAMA.
Doug de Vries’s vehicle, had to be. From here, she could just make out someone sitting in the driver’s seat. The angle of the sun, however, blocked her view of the passenger’s side, meaning Anya might or might not be in the vehicle with him.
D.D. cruised past. Eyes forward, hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel. One block up, she made a right and looped all the way around the next block, parking one street over and up from the rear alley.
She got on her phone to Phil. “At the theater. Have eyes on de Vries and his vehicle.”
“Okay. I’m at his house with a full team. His wife is here. She said he’d gone out, but has refused to offer anything more. She’s waiting on her lawyer.”
“I need to know if there’s a rehearsal scheduled for this morning.”
“D.D., she’s already requested a lawyer.”
“I know, I know. But requesting a schedule is hardly asking someone to risk self-incrimination. I just need to know how many people might be in a gigantic building where I may have at least one armed suspect. Tell her having a pervert husband is bad enough. Surely she doesn’t want to be held accountable for a hostage situation, too.”
“You have such a way with words.”
Rustling, followed by the low murmur of voices as Phil relayed her message.
Then: “Rehearsal is set for this evening. But apparently the theater is pretty informal. Doesn’t mean people won’t come in earlier to work on set pieces, run lines, whatever.”
“In other words, your guess is as good as mine?”