Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  “What do you think of Angelique’s message?” I ask him. “Help us. Clearly, it implies there’s more than just her safety at stake. But as Angelique’s family pointed out, all of her friends are accounted for. So who is the us?”

  Lotham doesn’t speak right away. His expression is troubled. “For the record, Angelique Badeau is our only active missing persons case at this time. So even looking beyond one teenage girl’s social circle . . .” He shrugs.

  In other words, there’s not an immediate or obvious connection between Angelique and other possible victims. Interesting.

  “Could be she’s being abducted and held with a group of runaways,” I brainstorm out loud. “Or, given the prevalence of human trafficking, other girls, immigrants who were smuggled into the country to be put to work. That’s an entire victim group that would never even cross investigative radar screens until it’s too late. Though how Angelique became part of such an operation, what exactly she stumbled into . . .” My voice trails off. This is all purely speculation. At the end of the day, Angelique’s ominous message changes everything—and nothing.

  The investigation remains as it’s always been—stuck. Lacking a cohesive theory. A fifteen-year-old girl disappeared after school. How, why, where? The possibilities are endless. Mostly, we now have proof that Angelique is alive. Though if she was driven to risk delivering a coded message at this stage of the game, her fate—and those of the mysterious us—could very well be hanging by a thread.

  “I don’t know what I’ll find when I search the apartment,” I say at last. “Mostly, I’m just hoping I find something.”

  Lotham nods as if this makes perfect sense. We lapse into silence, easily covering block after block.

  I like walking beside him. The comfort of his larger bulk, the ease of his stride. People move over slightly on the sidewalk, though that might be in deference to him being a cop as much as anything else. He is very present, and several brightly dressed women watch him out of the corner of their eyes as he passes.

  “Football or baseball?” I ask him now, because I can’t decide.

  “Neither.”

  I chew my lower lip, then realize I’ve been stupid. The broken nose, battered features. “Boxing,” I state.

  “I’ve been known to spend some time in the ring.”

  “Is that when someone went Mike Tyson on your ear?”

  “That’s from my older brother when we were kids. We fought a lot. Just, you know, to have something to do.”

  “How many brothers?”

  “Three.”

  “Good God, your poor mom.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Foxborough.”

  “Is that around here?”

  “South of the city. My parents were teachers. My mom taught English, my father was the classic gym instructor by day, school coach by night. He was at a middle school, so he coached across the board, football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. But his first love was boxing; he took my brothers and me to the gym on the weekends. Your turn.”

  “Grew up West Coast. Mom worked hard, Dad drank hard. Both are now dead.”

  He stares at me hard enough as we pause at a crosswalk that I finally add: “Car accident. The other vehicle was at fault, which was a total shocker given my father’s drinking and my mother’s rage. The driver drifted over the center line, hit them head on. They died instantly. It’s funny, my parents had a terrible marriage. I don’t remember either of them ever being happy. And yet the fact they died together brings me comfort.”

  He nods in understanding.

  “Military,” I deduce next, inspecting his haircut. “Possibly army, but I’m thinking with those looks, former Marine.”

  “No such thing as a former Marine,” he says, answering my question. “Post high school?” he quizzes me.

  “Excelled at partying. I spend a lot of time in church basements now.”

  “But you work in a bar.”

  “Being around booze isn’t such a big deal for me. And bartending is my only life skill.”

  “You don’t have a home. Or a husband, or kids. You just travel all around doing . . . this.”

  “Inserting myself into other people’s problems?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Definitely growing on you. And your deal? Wife, kid, white picket fence?”

  “My job is a demanding enough spouse, and my nieces and nephews keep me busy.”

  “You’re the favorite uncle, aren’t you? Swoop in, hop them up on video games, sugar them up with soda, then ride off into the sunset.”

  “Guilty as charged.” He arches a brow. My turn. Everyone has someone, don’t they?

  “Ghosts of Christmas past,” I tell him lightly, all I’m going to say on the subject. “Okay, bonus round: In this day and age of racial tension, gender fluidity, and political polarization, how do you most define yourself?”

  This earns me serious contemplation. After a moment: “Black male. Not African American because, according to my mother, there’s more in the mix, including Portuguese, though I don’t know any more about that culture than Africa. Definitely, I’m a Boston cop. Not southern, not West Coast, purely New England. After that . . . good son, amazing uncle. And you? White, female, heterosexual . . . ?”

  “Fishing, are you?” My turn to tease, then become serious. “Demographically speaking, I am white, female, heterosexual, agnostic, progressive, Californian. But first and foremost, I’m an addict. Which has taught me enough of my own weaknesses to be more understanding of others.”

  “And this is why strangers magically talk to you?”

  “Maybe I’m just that good a listener.”

  We’ve arrived at the Badeaus’ apartment. Lotham pauses before climbing up the front steps. He has a piece of white lint on his indigo tie. I have to repress the urge to reach out and flick it off. He defines himself as a Black male Boston cop, but to me he is a port in the storm, whether he wants to be or not.

  I would like to step into the silence that surrounds him. Lay my head against his shoulder. Discover if his stillness could seep into my own wild, restless being.

  I find myself leaning closer.

  “Why do you do this?” he asks me softly, dark gaze pinning my own.

  “I have no idea.”

  “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “The truth.”

  “Even if it’s ugly?”

  “It’s always ugly.”

  “Try not to hurt the family too much,” he murmurs.

  And I have to smile, because I understand completely. Missing persons cases . . .

  I turn and climb the front steps. After another moment, he follows.

  * * *

  —

  Guerline is at the stove when Emmanuel escorts us in, throwing a flour-dusted drumstick into the pan of sizzling oil. The spattering drumstick is quickly followed by four more.

  The moment we appear, however, she pulls herself away from the stove and produces a pot of coffee. She doesn’t ask, but pours out two mugs, handing one to each of us. Having just consumed my body weight in caffeine, I’m tempted to wave off, but the look on her face stops me.

  Stoic but welcoming. She is going through her steps, just as earlier today, I did mine.

  As if reading my mind, Lotham murmurs beside me: “Take it. It’s a Haitian thing. Drink up.”

  I take the mug, thanking her profusely. Given she hadn’t offered me coffee the first time I appeared, I appreciate that I’ve now risen in her esteem, while already wondering how long that will last.

  The living area is too small for four, especially when one of them is supersized. Lotham takes the hint. He downs his mug, then disappears back to the second-floor landing, where I can soon hear him yapping a
way on the phone.

  Emmanuel remains with me, his hands fidgeting in front of him.

  “What would you like to see?” he asks at last.

  Guerline moves away from me in the tiny space to throw more chicken into the skillet. More hissing and crackling.

  “Walk me through the living arrangements.”

  Emmanuel shows me the doorway leading to the single bedroom, which belongs to his aunt. Across from it is a cramped bathroom with a single vanity, toilet, and tub-shower combo. There is a mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink, a cheap shelving unit over the toilet. Shared space is cluttered space, which leaves me with much to sort out.

  For now, I follow Emmanuel back to the family room. He gestures to the couch. “For LiLi,” he explains. Then to the floor. “For me.” A nightstand next to the sofa. “For my sister.” Followed by a dresser wedged next to the TV stand, then the lowest shelf of the entertainment unit, which is lined with books. “Also for my sister.”

  That leaves two pieces of furniture, which must be Emmanuel’s.

  It’s not a large search area. But it’s a lot to process, given the riot of personal possessions, family photos, and miscellaneous knickknacks. It’s like peering into a dense forest, then slowly trying to pick out a single leaf.

  I take a seat on the sofa, then stand up again. “Where did your sister sit?” I ask Emmanuel. “Everyone has their spot.”

  He gestures to the end, closest to the wall, where an oversized ceramic lamp tops the nightstand, excellent lighting for a serious reader.

  “How did she sit?” I ask Emmanuel next. “Straight up, sideways, curled up? Can you show me?”

  Emmanuel moves to the couch. He appears to consider the matter, then settles himself into the cushions, striking a pose. Sideways, curled up. Again, closer to the lighting.

  Emmanuel bounces up. I nod in his direction as I take over Angelique’s position on the sofa. Then, for a long while, I don’t do anything at all. I just sit there and try to see what Angelique would see. Not rows of clutter, but pieces of memory. A fifteen-year-old girl, her family split between this country and the island she used to call home.

  Emmanuel drifts into the kitchen, taking a seat at the kitchen table, where his heavily stickered laptop is up and running. Doing homework or updating his sister’s digital memorial or monitoring her virtual high school? I wonder what his friends think. If he has anyone he can talk to.

  I refocus my eyes on the wall ahead of me. Eventually I get up. I open each dresser drawer and work my way through. It feels intrusive, pawing through someone’s piles of clothes. Having the family in the same room doesn’t help. I keep my movements brisk and my attention focused. It’s hard enough to do this once; I don’t want to have to repeat.

  I don’t stumble upon any hidden notes, photos, diaries. I feel out each drawer for false bottoms, then peek behind the dresser itself. There are routine places, contraband 101. Items tucked under floorboards, taped beneath shelves. Under this object, behind this piece of furniture.

  I take down the framed photo of Angelique’s mom and, with my back to the kitchen, delicately dismantle it. My efforts are rewarded by the discovery of a scrap of thick white paper. It’s covered by a child’s crayon drawing of a heart and flowers. Written across the top in large, looping script are the words Mwen renmen ou.

  I don’t have to know Kreyòl to guess it reads I love you.

  I return the note to its place behind the photo, feeling even more intrusive. I wander the bookshelves, the makeshift altar, the riot of green houseplants. I worked a missing persons case once where a thumb drive of illicit photos was slipped inside the pot of a fake ficus tree. These plants involve moist loamy soil, however. And none appear recently disturbed.

  I move to the bathroom, where I check the medicine cabinet and beauty products littering the shelves above the toilet. I shake aerosol cans for fake bottoms. Open up makeup containers just in case. There is nothing in the handle of the hairbrush, taped inside the toilet tank, or bolted to the underside of the sink.

  I account for the wooden baseboards, then check the doorframe, before emptying out the contents beneath the sink. Lot of cleaners, toilet paper, and feminine hygiene products. Given that a classic travel hack is to hide cash inside sanitary pads or tampon wrappers, I pull out every item in the boxes. When I look up, Detective Lotham has returned and is shaking his head at me. I shrug, get back to it.

  Other classic hiding spots. Inside the freezer. Inside the door of the freezer. Tucked between wall cabinets, or behind crown molding. I once found a stash of dope inside a vacuum cleaner. Turned out to belong to the mother’s boyfriend and had nothing to do with her son’s disappearance, but he was pissed at me for months. And yes, my relationship with the entire family went downhill from there.

  I eventually discovered the body of the nine-year-old locked in the trunk of an abandoned car on his grandfather’s property. The murder trial is due to start sometime next year.

  I return to the living area, confront the couch. I take it apart cushion by cushion. Fortunately, it doesn’t include a sofa bed, so I don’t have to rearrange the entire room.

  Then I return to my perch at the end of the sofa, and resume thinking like a fifteen-year-old girl. This is where I watch TV, surf my phone, hang with my family. This is where I stay up late, tuck into bed, confront each morning. In this entire apartment, this corner of the couch, this nightstand, that bureau, are mine alone. Slivers of privacy in an arrangement where my younger brother is also living, sleeping, waking right beside me.

  And maybe I don’t mind. I protected my baby brother from our father. I led him from our collapsing house. Even now, I have promised us both a better future.

  But maybe I met someone? Or someone found me?

  Maybe, for a moment, I wanted my own dream, my own secret, my own life. But how? In a place this small, in an apartment this crowded, where even my computer is shared . . .

  I leave the photos and inspect the row of books. I take down each one, reading the title, fluffing the pages. A few are in French, but most are English. None of them are books that I understand. Apparently Angelique liked to read everything from bios on Madame Curie to Elizabeth Blackwell. I flip through an anatomy book where I discover inserted sheets from Angelique’s sketch pad, incredibly realistic renderings of skeletal systems and muscle groups. She was clearly a gifted artist, at least to my untrained eye.

  I give up on that mission and return to the couch. It’s already been more than an hour. The chicken is done and currently warming in the oven. If I wasn’t intruding before, I am now. Guerline has joined her nephew at the table, both of them clearly anxious. I should leave them so they can finally collapse in peace.

  One last try. I’m fifteen. I’ve met a female friend . . . boyfriend . . . exciting stranger . . . I am . . .

  I don’t know what Angelique was into, that’s the whole problem. But I know one thing she had—a second phone. Which she would’ve had to hide from her aunt and brother. But would want to check frequently . . .

  I twist around. There’s nothing tucked in the sofa cushions. Nor taped beneath the coffee table, nor under the sofa.

  I lean closer to the nightstand, snapping on the brightly colored lamp, and then—just like that—I know. Her spot on the sofa. The way she sat, not leaning forward or slouching down, but angling toward the wall.

  Better light to read by, I’d thought. But maybe, it was just plain better light.

  Now I reach up and snap off the bulb. Then I pick up the entire lamp, with its large ceramic base covered in checks of red, purples, and turquoise. When I shake it, there’s no rattling sound or sense of movement. But the weight of it, so solid, so heavy. I feel beneath it until my fingers close around the large bolt that holds the whole thing together. I don’t need a tool. The bolt is already loose, waiting.

  I twist the nut. I slowly pull
off the base. And just like that, banded rolls of bills go thumping out on to the floor. One two three four five six. Not hundreds of dollars, but thousands in tightly bundled cash.

  A screech at the kitchen table as Emmanuel shoves back his chair. A terrible gasp from Guerline, hand flying to her mouth.

  Detective Lotham appears in the doorway.

  I shake out three more rolls. We all watch them roll across the rug. Thousands and thousands of dollars in cold, hard cash. Way more money than any teenager could have accrued by legal means.

  Guerline places her head in her hands and starts to cry.

  CHAPTER 14

  The happy hour crowd is firmly entrenched by the time I return to Stoney’s pub. I grab an apron, wash my hands, and get straight to work banging out beer and running plates of food.

  My mind keeps returning to the rolls of cash hidden in Angelique’s lamp. When I left, Detective Lotham was bagging the evidence. The fact that Guerline and Emmanuel weren’t protesting his removal of large sums of money from their humble apartment confirmed that the money wasn’t theirs and the implications troubling.

  Not being an official investigator type, I can only guess what kind of forensic tests will be conducted on the cash. Fingerprinting, for sure. My understanding is that new bills can often yield useful prints. Anything in circulation too long, however, has been touched by too many greasy hands, leaving behind a mess of smudged partials.

  They’d test each bill for chemical residue. Traces of drugs. Maybe some cool random mold that could only be found in one basement in all of Boston. Or not.

  I’d read about a case where the serial numbers on the bills were traced to a particular ATM, which allowed the police to pull video and identify the person who withdrew the funds. That would be great. Given how tightly bound the money was, however, I don’t have an impression of crispness, consecutive serial numbers, or, really, any useful information.

  It looked like rolls of hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars per bundle. Making the total stash worth tens of thousands. What in the world could a teenage girl be doing to earn that kind of money?