Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  “Of all the counterfeiting we’ve discussed, a fake ID is the most feasible DIY project. With the right software, and a specialized printer, I could see two teenage girls pulling it off.” Lotham frowns. “Unfortunately.”

  “Maybe the money in Angelique’s lamp came from their own business enterprise? Livia probably enjoyed the design challenge, while Angelique had personal incentive to run DommyJ out of business.”

  “Why the counterfeit hundreds?” Lotham countered, making a hard right into a stalled stream of city traffic.

  “Maybe someone paid them with fakes. Maybe they didn’t know they even had counterfeit bills.”

  “So they’re smart enough to see the flaws in fake IDs but not forged bills?”

  He raises a valid point. But damned if I can figure out how we get from Russian-printed Ben Franklins to locally manufactured fake driver’s licenses. I’m also curious that the executive director of the rec center, Frédéric Lagudu, never mentioned a huge confrontation between Angelique and Livia and this DommyJ. Unless he came upon it at the very end and had just enough time to break it up while writing it off as another day in paradise? Because surely once Angelique went missing, her screaming match with a wannabe hoodlum would be worth noting?

  “Let’s say Livia Samdi knows something about production, given her design talents,” Lotham muses. “After the confrontation with DommyJ, she and her new bestie Angelique start scheming. They’ll make their own fake IDs. Superior quality that will drive dumbass Dommy out of business, while earning them extra cash.”

  “Livia is manufacturing, Angelique marketing and sales.”

  Lotham nods. Cars are not moving. He gives it another ten seconds, then flashes his grille lights. The car in front of us does its best to squeeze over. Lotham threads through a narrow opening between the clogged lanes, gets to the first turnoff, and takes it. I have no idea where we are, but I like his style.

  “Here’s what I don’t get,” Lotham says. “Wouldn’t Angelique’s first customers be her own friends? Think of the DommyJ model. He probably signed up for the summer program just so he could sell to his fellow teens. Enter Angelique, who we’re saying sold enough to have thousands in cash but never approached her own social circle? That seems odd.”

  I sit back grumpily. Then, remembering my conversation with Charlie: “Maybe she and Livia sold online. The international IDs are done that way. And these are two girls who’ve both been described as quiet. Internet sales would work, while further compartmentalizing this new criminal activity from their real, college-aspirational lives.”

  “Possible. But that introduces more infrastructure. How are they getting paid? Money transfers? Bitcoin? They’d need to have bank accounts and they’re both underage.”

  “Not according to Angelique’s fake alter ego, Tamara Levesque.”

  Lotham eyes widened slightly. “Shit.” He bangs the steering wheel with his hand. “Of course. We examined the Levesque ID for forensic clues, then overanalyzed it with the help of Angelique’s brother for coded messages. Maybe, all along, the breadcrumb was the name itself, Tamara Levesque. A lead on Angelique’s secret life, which has clearly gotten her and her friend in trouble.”

  “Oooh.” I finally get it. “As in Angelique doesn’t have bank accounts and Livia Samdi doesn’t have financial records, but Tamara Levesque . . . Oh, oh, oh.”

  “Damn sleep deprivation,” Lotham mutters. “I’ll get on it, the second after I drop you off.”

  I sigh heavily. So much happening right now. On the cusp of so many answers right now.

  “We still have a problem,” Lotham says, finally able to pick up a little speed as he cuts through a maze of tiny side streets. “Assuming Livia and Angelique were doing this together . . . Why did Angelique go missing first?”

  “She was posing as Livia. Trying to protect her from . . . someone.”

  “And it took that someone three months to realize he had the wrong girl? That’s not a very bright someone. Besides, if you’re a criminal who wants to move in on their new and improved fake ID business, wouldn’t you just grab both of them?”

  I have to think about it. “If Livia is the design genius behind their operation, then she’d be more valuable than Angelique. Maybe that’s why she appeared so scared. Maybe Angelique volunteered to take the meeting in Livia’s place. When the bad person discovered the subterfuge, they kept Angelique and used her as leverage to force Livia to work for them.”

  “Then why take Livia three months later?”

  “Ummm . . . coercion only works so long? Or operations had grown so fast they needed Livia at their immediate disposal? Maybe they have Livia shut up somewhere, designing a million fake IDs a day, I don’t know. And Livia’s now the collateral being held against Angelique. Hence Angelique has resurfaced to perform other, smaller tasks, because as long as they have Livia, they know she’ll return to them.”

  “There’s a lot of assumptions in that theory,” Lotham informs me. “On the other hand, playing the girls off each other is a tried-and-true strategy. Used by human traffickers everywhere. In fact, it’s often easier to kidnap two people rather than just one, as it gives the kidnapper more leverage over both of them.”

  “Those poor girls,” I murmur. “For Angelique this whole thing probably started as a way to strike back against the asshat that hurt her bestie. For Livia, maybe it was all about impressing her new friend, inserting herself deeper into Angelique’s world. And for their troubles, the two of them have now been kidnapped, while most likely being forced to engage in some kind of criminal activity, license forgeries, something. I don’t know if I could handle that kind of stress. Especially eleven months later.”

  Lotham nods, arrives at last by the side door of Stoney’s. “So, to recap, we have the victims, Angelique Badeau and Livia Samdi. We have a possible criminal activity—fake IDs. Which still feels small potatoes to me. Thousands a month, versus the hundreds of thousands that can be netted through drugs. So who would be into something like that and have enough incentive to kidnap and hold two teenage girls for nearly a year?”

  “What about this brother? Not Johnson. The other Samdi brother who appeared at the rec center?”

  “The tall, sinister guy?” Lotham shrugs. “I’ll do some asking around. Chances are the gang taskforce has a name.”

  “I saw him.”

  “You saw him?”

  “The first time I visited Boston Academy. Skinny Black dude, with a fashion sense that’s at least twenty years out of date. I’d just wrapped up talking to Kyra and Marjolie when I spotted him across the street. He was watching me.”

  Lotham turns in the driver’s seat, his shoulders massive in the confined space. “And you were going to mention this when?”

  “What was there to mention? I was at a public school in Roxbury and a Black guy stood across the street. Hello, there’s a shocker. Frankly, he had more grounds to report the strange white woman accosting students in the corner deli. I didn’t realize his presence had any kind of significance. Let alone that he might be Livia Samdi’s long-lost brother. For that matter, I didn’t know about Livia Samdi. But he definitely knew I was there.” I hesitate. “I might have seen him a second time, as well.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside the Samdi house, when I was being shot at.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I wasn’t exactly paying attention to the scenery. I was hightailing it down a sidewalk trying to save my sorry ass. But for a moment, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him across the street.”

  “In other words, where the shot was fired from.” Lotham sounds beyond pissed off. I’m not exactly sure why, given I was the one who’d been the target.

  “It’s possible,” I allow.

  “I’m gonna send techs back to the scene. Have uniforms perform a fresh canvass.”

  �
�Nobody’s gonna say a thing. Especially if it’s some mysterious scary older brother.”

  Lotham shakes his head. His mouth is set in a grim line. “You’re here tonight?” He gestures to Stoney’s.

  “Till midnight.”

  “I don’t want you out by yourself. You need to attend a meeting, call me. If I can’t come, I’ll send a patrol car.”

  “To drive me to AA? Wow, talk about making a statement.”

  “Frankie . . .”

  But I’ve had enough. There’s only so much of this kind of male fretting I can take. I have been on my own for a long time. And I’m not an idiot.

  “I’m gonna go to work,” I inform him. “Then, given the day, I’ll probably retreat upstairs to my studio apartment and incredibly hostile roommate. Forget a guard dog. I dare any evildoer to take on Piper. That cat bites first, asks questions later.”

  “Call me when you’re done with work,” Lotham orders.

  “You call me.” Now I am being a bitch, but I don’t care.

  “If that’s what you prefer.”

  “And what will you be doing this evening?”

  “Running down financial accounts for Tamara Levesque and a family tree for Livia Samdi.”

  “Do you think you might need an attack cat?”

  “I’m a police detective, for the love of God—”

  “And I’m a woman who’s lived in more scary neighborhoods than you’ll ever get to visit. We both have our skills.”

  “Frankie—”

  “Lotham.”

  “I wish I understood you.”

  “Detectives like puzzles. Which means the moment you figure me out . . .”

  “I’m not as shallow as you seem to think.”

  “And I’m not so complicated. I’m here to find a missing teen, which is now two missing teens. This is what I do. I am experienced, and I have handled situations like this before. These kinds of cases . . .” I shrug. “They always involve secrets and there’s generally at least one person willing to kill to keep those secrets safe.”

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  “I have a whistle. A very loud whistle. Though if it helps, Stoney has a baseball bat behind the bar.”

  “Take it upstairs with you tonight.”

  “Fine.” I glance at my watch. Three thirty. “I gotta go.” I pop open the door, climb out onto the sidewalk.

  “Frankie,” Lotham calls from the driver’s seat. “Be careful, okay? Just, be careful.”

  “Back at you.”

  I shut the car door and head to work.

  CHAPTER 28

  Stoney is not happy with my late arrival.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say.

  He gives me a look. The look. No one likes that look.

  I don’t provide an explanation or an excuse. I already know it doesn’t matter. Instead, I do the best damage control I can: I get to work, and I work fast. Thirty minutes later, when the front doors open and the first wave of locals arrive, I’m already pouring spicy cocktail peanuts and pulling beers. Today, I get a few nods in recognition. Not words yet, but physical acknowledgment that I’m still here. I’ll take it.

  The night busies up. Which is all well and good in my world. I don’t want or need the constant buzz of too many thoughts in my head.

  Nine p.m., the first break arrives. I head back to the kitchen long enough to request a garden salad from Viv. She looks me up and down.

  “You’re not getting laid.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Whatdya waiting for? No man’s gonna be better looking.”

  “Don’t tell your husband that.”

  A snicker. “Enjoy your salad. But live a little, too. Life’s too damn short, or haven’t you heard?”

  More food deliveries to various tables, more pitchers of rum punch. Then I get fifteen minutes to inhale salad. “Love it,” I inform Viv. “Thank you very much. Have I mentioned that I stole your eggs and fries?”

  “Not my eggs and fries.”

  “I stole Stoney’s eggs and fries.”

  “Better work hard, then. He’s fussy like that.”

  I take that to heart, turning into a whirling dervish of hospitality. Tables served, drinks delivered, smiles extended. I’m like the Wonder Woman of food and beverage. By eleven, when things have settled and we’re down to the die-hards, Stoney says:

  “Easy now. You’re starting to freak me out.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  “You are a piss-poor employee.”

  “Good news, though. I’m not so bad on the missing persons front.”

  “Angelique Badeau is coming home?”

  “Hard-ass. Maybe tomorrow.”

  He gives me a look.

  “Maybe,” I insist. Then, more thoughtfully, “Stoney, you must’ve seen a bunch of fake IDs in your time.”

  “It comes up.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “About what?”

  “The market, quality, et cetera.”

  He shrugs, gathers up dirty glasses. “Don’t have an opinion. Ones I saw, I seized, per the law. Plus, I don’t have any interest in serving kids. Then again, you’ve seen our crowd; not exactly the college type. I don’t get the big deal myself. If you can die for your country at eighteen, why not have a beer?”

  “Victimless crime?”

  He shrugs. “Plenty of bigger things to worry about.”

  “What if it’s not all about drinking? I mean, an ID can get you access to all sorts of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, if you’re under eighteen, your own cell phone.”

  “After-hours phone,” he states, no prompting required.

  “You know about those?”

  “Everyone knows about those.”

  I scowl. “Then it gets you . . .” I honestly falter. Being eighteen or twenty-one, depending on your preference, is worth the right to vote, the honor of joining the military, and . . . well, access to Boston’s night life.

  “How many kids you think want a fake ID?” I ask him, changing gears.

  “Plenty. Boston’s a college town. Most of the freshmen want to drink or party. And owners like me take carding seriously or risk losing our licenses. You know what it costs to get a liquor license?”

  “A small fortune?”

  “A large fortune. Enough most establishments aren’t playing it fast or loose anytime soon.”

  “So there’s a decent enough demand for fake IDs. A person could make some cash.”

  Another Stoney shrug. “If you’re into counterfeiting, why not just print money?”

  “Turns out that’s really hard.”

  “No shit. Well, what about stocks or bonds or bank notes on one particular ancient neighborhood bar?”

  I hear what he says. “Might be possible. I don’t know.”

  “Green card.” A voice speaks up from the end of the bar. One of the regulars. Michael Duarde. I’ve served him several nights, but this is our first conversation. His accent is definitely not from here, though I’m hard-pressed to pick a country. The fact that he’s slightly slurring his words doesn’t help. “Gonna fake something, fake a fucking green card. Or work visa. That’s what everyone wants.”

  Michael raises his beer and takes a long pull. Both Stoney and I watch him.

  “You have TPS status?” I ask him. As in Temporary Protected Status, which is what most of the Haitian immigrants, such as Angelique and her brother, were granted post-earthquake.

  “Not me. Plenty of others.”

  “Can you fake a visa?” I ask Stoney, genuinely curious. Because the drunk guy raises a good point.

  “Can you fake a passport?” he asks me.

  “Not without a lot of expertise.”

  “There you go
.”

  “Harder than a hundred-dollar bill?” I ask him.

  “Beyond my pay grade.”

  He’s right, but he’s got me thinking about Lotham’s point from the car ride home. Even if Angelique and Livia were making thousands a month dealing fake IDs, that’s small potatoes compared to illegal drug revenue . . . Why kidnap two girls over small potatoes?

  Counterfeiting green cards or work visas would be big leagues. Crazy amounts of money. Except if you can’t nail a hologram on a Massachusetts driver’s license, how the hell are you going to fake a document on par with a U.S. passport? Forging a visa is terrorist-cell kind of crazy. Or Russian-printed-bills kind of savvy.

  It feels to me it all boils down to one key question—Angelique and Livia were clearly involved with something illegal, but how illegal? What kind of crime would incentivize kidnapping and holding two teenagers for nearly a year?

  I mull the possibilities as I wrap up for the night. Closing out tabs, carrying the last of the dirty dishes to Viv, cleaning.

  “Where’s your handsome hunk?” she asks me as she finally bustles out, pulling on her coat.

  My phone hasn’t rung. I refuse to admit how many times I’ve checked it. “Working.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Been a long day.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Oh look, there’s your husband waiting for you.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Stop that!”

  Finally a smile. “Girl, you gotta get your priorities straight. None of us have forever. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “My eggs have petrified in my ovaries?”

  “Forget that, honey. I’m talking fun. You hear me?”

  She’s not wrong. But it doesn’t help my cause as I let her out the front door, then lock up behind. I watch as her husband takes her arm. They look adorable. Two peas in a pod. Viv shoots me a final cheery wave. I do my best not to vomit in her general direction.

  Stoney closes out the register, brings me my tips. I wave him off. “I keep eating out of the kitchen. My bad.”

  “You’re both eating my food and showing up late?”