by Lisa Gardner
Lotham brings O’Shaughnessy over. Charlie repeats his news. O’Shaughnessy frowns thoughtfully.
“I know the Samdi family, but not well. Dad’s MIA. Mom’s a drunk.”
Lotham glances from me to Charlie, seems to connect the dots. I shrug as if to say, finally. He sighs again.
“Hadn’t heard about Livia, though,” O’Shaughnessy continued. “Her oldest brother recently got pinched for dealing. Small time, and not exactly news, but hardly a surprise either. The family . . . Let’s just say they’re not the type to get the police involved in their business.”
Lotham nods. “We’re going to need to talk to them. Learn everything about Livia, including last time she was seen, relationship with Angelique Badeau, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Us,” I murmur. “Or maybe the beginning of us.”
O’Shaughnessy gives me a funny look. “Angel’s family has never mentioned Livia’s name. So I’m not sure what ‘us’ you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think they knew. I don’t think anyone knew.”
“Knew what?”
“About their friendship. Or whatever it was.” I turn over the pieces in my mind. “They met at the rec center. Angelique had signed up for the summer program with her bestie Marjolie, but it turns out Marjolie was more interested in a certain basketball player than fashion camp. So Angelique ended up on her own. Until she made a new friend, Livia Samdi, who, for whatever reason, Angelique felt compelled to keep secret. Maybe because Livia had a history of getting into trouble? Or the nature of their relationship? I don’t know all the details yet. But Livia was definitely aware of Angelique. The executive director, Frédéric, reported that he caught her watching Angelique on several occasions. You should talk to him.”
“I have talked to Frédéric,” Lotham practically growls.
“Then you should’ve asked him more questions relevant to teenage girls,” I retort, starting to feel hostile myself. It’s not my fault he didn’t pick up on the details. Maybe he should’ve invested more time in a misspent youth. Certainly, I make most of my discoveries by asking what would my former, reprobate self do, and voilà, I get answers.
“Have you eaten?” Lotham asks me abruptly.
“No . . .”
“Great. Follow me.”
He doesn’t wait, just turns and heads up the street. I glance at O’Shaughnessy and Charlie. Both appear as confused as I feel. Charlie finally gives me a little nod. I take that as a hint and scamper after Lotham. He doesn’t slow down or turn around, as he cuts his way through the slowly dispersing crowd of gawkers.
I realize several things at once. It’s already after one in the afternoon and I’m starving. Also, I’m two hours from reporting to a job I can’t afford to miss for the second day in a row. And yet, to pull away from the case now . . .
Lotham crosses the street. I follow, barely on his heels. Up ahead, a giant battered sign appears. It looks like an enormous ice cream cone perched on top of a roof. I can just make out the word Simco running down the peeling white cone. The words across the ice cream top are harder to make out; maybe hot dog? Though why a giant ice cream cone to advertise hot dogs?
Lotham has picked up his pace. I hustle to catch up.
Simco’s World’s Largest Hot Dog does appear to be our destination. It’s a long, stand-alone building with a row of windows for ordering takeout. Half the windows are covered in photos of food. In addition to hot dogs, there’s everything from a fried whiting dinner to Caribbean flavors to frappés, fried dough, and raspberry-lime rickeys. I’m so mesmerized by the options, I barely notice that Lotham has stopped in front of one of the open windows, where a middle-aged Black woman waits impatiently for our order.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
“Everything! I’ve never had a lime rickey. Sounds amazing.”
“We’ll take two dogs, one rickey, and a chocolate frappé,” Lotham orders.
“Perfect. What are you going to have?”
He rolls his eyes, clearly onto my witty repartee by now.
There are toppings to be sorted out. I have no idea so I let the local have at it. Soon enough we have a greasy bag of food and two freezing-cold drinks. I’m excited.
“If I’m a good girl and eat all my food, can I have fried dough afterwards? Or maybe the banana boat. Dear God, this is better than the county fair.”
“County fair?”
“Trust me.”
We stand on the sidewalk to eat. Cars roar past, some beaters, some so custom you have to wonder about the driver’s profession. Lotham seems immune. He keeps chewing and swallowing, his eyes half-mast with happiness. The hot dogs are super long, the fries salty, and the raspberry-lime rickey a refreshing hit of icy tartness.
“Number six,” I inform Lotham as I munch away. I’m never going to finish the world’s largest hot dog, but it’ll be fun to try.
“Number six what?”
“Best meal I ever had.”
“You rate them?”
“It’s good to note key moments. And food is often a source of happiness.”
“You’re saying eating a hot dog standing roadside is your sixth all-time favorite meal?”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t understand you at all, Elkin.”
“Because I’m simple when you want me to be complicated. And I’m complicated when you want me to be simple.” I shrug. I’ve lived with myself for a long time now. And part of maintaining my sobriety is being honest even when it hurts.
Lotham has already finished his dog. He goes to work on his fries with mechanical precision.
“You piss me off,” he states.
“I got that memo.”
“We asked questions. I personally visited that fucking rec center. For that matter, I was there when we searched the apartment, interviewed family and friends. And yet you . . .” He seems at a loss for words. “Three days into it, and you’ve turned this whole damn thing on its head.”
“Would you rather have no leads at all?”
“No, dammit!”
“Then you’d rather all discoveries be the product of your greatness?”
“I’m not that petty!”
“Then what the hell is it you want? I’m here. I’m sharing. Frankly, you’re the one being an asshole.”
Lotham scowls, eats more fries. “I’m trying to figure out your secret. Or what to do with you. Or what to make of you. Maybe all three.”
“Hah. Good luck with that.”
“Why are you here? Why this case? Why this girl? What exactly it is you’re looking for?”
He’s ruining my mood and my appetite. I shutter the clamshell container of hot dog and fries, take a sip of my lime rickey instead. It’s melting fast now. Probably doesn’t like angry conversations any more than I do.
“You want to know who I am.”
“Precisely.”
“Maybe it’s more important to know who I’m not.”
“I have such a headache right now, and this . . . is not helping.”
But he started it, and now I won’t be put off. “You want to know me, Mr. Big-Shot Detective, Mr. Fucking BPD and Expert on All Things Local? You ran my background. You already know what you need to know. I’m a woman who can’t stay in one place for very long. I don’t have close, lasting relationships. I have no sense of material possessions or financial stability. And I fight every fucking day not to take a drink. You know what I can do? This. Locate missing persons. Work cold cases. I don’t know why. But this is what I’ve got, pretty much the only thing I’ve got, so I’m sticking with it.”
“Some modern-day Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock sees the answers. I just have a gift for asking the right questions.” I take the bag from him, jam my container of food back in. “I don’t know where Angelique is. I do
n’t know why she has a hidden stash of counterfeit money or what’s her relationship with Livia Samdi or why she’s running around the city with a fake ID leaving coded messages. But I’m also okay not seeing that far ahead. As long as I have the next question . . . I’ll get there.”
Lotham has finished his lunch. He takes the bag back, adds his own trash. His eyes are dark and intense. He stands much closer to me than necessary. I can feel the heat from him. Roiling waves of rage and frustration.
“You want answers,” I say quietly.
“Of course!”
“You’re all about the finish line.”
“Bringing home a missing teenage girl, hell yes.”
“I’m about the process. Once we cross the finish line . . . that’s where I get lost. That’s when I stop understanding things so well.”
He frowns, appearing genuinely puzzled. “You’re really never going to settle down? You’re really just gonna do this—drift from city to town to city?”
“Will you miss me?” I smile. It’s a bit sad, though. I would honestly like the good detective to kiss me. No, I’d like him to drag me around the back of the building and fuck me senseless, because that’s the kind of intensity I crave. But he’s all solid and stable and Marine Force Recon. The calm in the storm. While I’m the hurricane that destroys everything in its path.
Lotham must read some of it on my face, because he suddenly grabs my chin. His hand is warm, his fingertips calloused. I part my lips. His thumb brushes over the lower one and I clamp down on his finger gently, touching the pad of his thumb with the tip of my tongue.
His eyes darken. Here’s something else I know: Good guys like him have a weakness for train wrecks like me.
Just ask Paul.
“Do you want to take me home?” I ask him softly, releasing his thumb. “I’ll go. We can fuck on your sofa, your kitchen table, maybe even your bed if we get that far. You can work out all that turmoil. Maybe you’ll even feel in control. Like you got a handle on me, at last. Got me right where you want me.”
He doesn’t speak, but takes a step closer.
“I love sex. The harder the better. A moment where I don’t have to think, where I can escape my own mind? Afterwards, I might even get a good night’s sleep. But the minute it’s over, you’re gonna want what you’re gonna want, and I’m still gonna be me. And that will piss you off all over again.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
I smile. And I can see Paul so clearly, it’s like a hole being ripped in my chest all over again.
What did you do, Frankie? Dear God, what did you do?
I loved you.
“I have to go to work now,” I tell the detective honestly. “I get off at midnight. If you want to find me. We can talk about the case. Or not. I’ll be there.”
I step back. Then, because one step doesn’t quite do the trick, two, three, four, more. He watches me retreat, staying rooted in place with the remnants of our shared lunch. When I’m sure he’s truly going to stay, I turn.
I walk rapidly back to Stoney’s. I tell myself I am okay. I tell myself I’m not rattled. I tell myself I can handle it.
Because no one can be honest all of the time. Not even me.
CHAPTER 18
I pop upstairs to my apartment to clean up before work. And possibly, though I don’t want to get carried away, because I’m worried about Piper. But given that I’m greeted with a giant ball of vomit in the middle of the floor, I can see my concerns are misplaced. I check under the bed, and sure enough, glowing green eyes stare back at me.
“We need to discuss your communication style,” I inform her.
She blinks slowly.
“I find the gutted mice and pile of ick to be passive aggressive. If you need a bit of personal space, just say so.”
She yawns, flashing canines. Maybe her communication style is direct, and I just don’t like the message.
I get out the paper towels and mop up the mess.
Tomorrow, I’ll hit the grocery store, I promise myself. After I survive my work shift, attend an AA meeting, and . . . well, whatever comes next with the good detective.
I really wouldn’t mind a night of mad, passionate sex.
Then again, I’m not convinced Lotham is the type who can handle the morning after.
I sigh heavily. Scrub my hands and face, rake a comb through my hair, then report downstairs for work.
Stoney is his usual silent self. I appreciate that today. My mind is racing. For all my big words to Lotham, I hate having this many questions. Livia and Angelique. Angelique and Livia. Am I being too naïve? Maybe instead of secret besties, they were lovers and Angelique wasn’t ready to disclose her sexuality to the world?
In my experience, teenagers today are pretty open-minded about these things. Certainly compared to my generation. Though maybe sexual orientation isn’t as accepted in Haitian culture? Or in Angelique’s family? How do I ask that question?
It matters, though. What is the relationship between Angelique and Livia, and what drove both of them to disappear within months of each other?
Us. Help us.
And again, just how many people is us? Is a presumed runaway girl the end of that question, or just the beginning?
The knowledge of a second missing teen does help with some answers. For example, Angelique’s obvious autonomy to move around the city, but her continued need for secrecy and refusal to come home. Human trafficking 101 is to play the girls off one another. You can have freedom for the night. But one false move, and your friend will pay the price. Given Angelique’s reputation for caretaking, she would be particularly vulnerable to such control tactics. Especially if Livia was a new friend, more-than-friend, whom she wouldn’t want to betray.
Meaning that eleven months later, Angelique had acquired some level of trust and independence from her kidnappers—while remaining terrified for her safety, and the safety of at least one other girl.
Angelique didn’t believe in dreams, Emmanuel had said. She believed in making plans. Like sending a coded message. Like appearing at a major wireless store where maybe she hoped she’d be captured on security cameras. Two sightings in two weeks.
Whatever her plan was, it involved a definite sense of urgency. Meaning what had changed? What was about to happen if we didn’t pick up on her trail of breadcrumbs and fast?
I unstack chairs, wipe tabletops, slice up lemons and limes, and still come no closer to any answers. Clearly Angelique is trying to communicate. Unfortunately, I still didn’t get the message.
Viv appears through the front door. She stops when she sees me.
“I hear you’re looking for that poor missing girl.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You some kind of private eye?”
“I’m gonna go with some kind.”
She hums her approval in her Viv-like way. “Honey, no child should be missing from her family. Any way I can help, you let me know.”
“Do you know the Samdi family? Their daughter is Livia.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I can ask around. Mattapan ain’t that big, but it’s crowded enough. Was a time when I felt like I knew my neighbors, but not anymore.”
Viv disappears into the kitchen, hollering out a greeting to Stoney, who grunts in reply. I just finish setting up the bar in time for the first few customers to arrive. I already recognize a few of the regulars, and no longer earn so many dark scowls. I take that as progress as I start banging out drinks and delivering plates of hot food.
I keep myself busy. I tell myself I’m not glancing at the door every time it opens. I promise myself I’m not some giddy schoolgirl anxiously waiting for her crush to appear.
It doesn’t really work, but thankfully the combination of cheap beer and low-priced food has the tables filled and the orders coming. I�
��m a good bartender. I like the steady rhythm, the adrenaline rush of juggling dozens of customers, followed by the quieter times where I restock, clean up, and prepare for the madness to return.
The hard-core drinkers aren’t ones to talk, but I like that, too. More of them make eye contact with me tonight. Another few days, and I’ll be worthy of them learning my name. Then my list of growing social contacts will really piss the detective off.
Nine p.m. Dinner crowd done, tables thinning, demand easing.
No detective.
Ten p.m. Down to a few tables of rowdies, enjoying a big night out.
No detective.
Eleven p.m. Tables are pretty much cleared. The bar is left with the hard-core stragglers, who will stay to closing.
I scared him off. Not everyone appreciates bluntness, and not every man can deal with the hot mess that is me.
Or he’s exhausted, having spent most of last night working. Or he’s still on the job, as today’s revelations have led to even more breaks in the case.
I want to hear about new breaks in the case. I want . . .
The door opens.
Lotham appears.
And despite all my bold declarations, my stomach flip-flops and my hands tremble, and I do feel like a stupid schoolgirl, even though I, of all people, know better.
The detective has showered and changed. Dark jeans, paired with a rich turquoise button-down shirt stretched across his broad chest. He radiates cop and authority figure and military man all rolled into one. As he approaches the bar, several of the hard-core drinkers beat a retreat. I don’t blame them.
“Girly drink?” I ask as he takes a seat.
He gives me a look. “I’ll take a glass of water.”
The order unsettles me. Because he’s still working and needs a clear head? Or because he wants complete focus for our future interlude?
I dump ice in a glass, add water. Stoney wanders over, greets the detective with a nod. This time of night, never bad to have a cop nearby. Then Viv bustles out, takes in my impressive new customer, eyes him, eyes me, then delivers a not-so-subtle “You go girl.”
I turn red, which frazzles me more. I never did the giddy schoolgirl thing. Frankly, I was much too hammered most of the time to care. Manic, yes. Destructive, certainly. Giddy, never.
