by Lisa Gardner
Instead, I lift his legs and tuck him into bed.
“Good night, Detective.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“I didn’t say Paul.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Good night, Detective.”
I put him to bed. Then I take up watch in front of the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer out. But no gold-chained gangster is staring up at me.
“I’m going to learn your secrets,” my guest says sleepily.
“Shhh . . .”
I let the detective sleep. Then I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my window, and think of Livia Samdi, and Angelique Badeau, and what it means to be a teenage girl. The mistakes we all make. The moments we’ll never get back again.
Then, I do say his name. “Paul.”
And I smell blood and I feel pain and I let it wash over me, the price of my sins.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I’m not talking to Paul anymore. I’m talking to Livia Samdi, and all the girls like her.
Then I pray, as hard as I’ve ever prayed, for Angelique Badeau. For us to find her in time. For her to be out there, still alive, still okay.
For her to please, please, please, come home again.
CHAPTER 30
I don’t sleep. My thoughts are spinning too swiftly. Five a.m., Lotham tossing restlessly, I give up and tiptoe out of my room. Stoney has an ancient desktop in his office. I fire it to life, hoping it might provide some insights.
I brew a fresh pot of coffee as I wait for it to boot up. Then I take a seat and have at it.
First, I Google the name Tamara Levesque. It has to mean something, I think. Though, why a college student in Western Mass? But Emmanuel said his sister didn’t dream, she made plans. So what was Angelique trying to tell us? What did we need to know?
I get four hits. Three of them are Tamara Levesques who live in other states. The fourth is a mention on an Instagram page.
I have plenty of experience with social media; in this day and age, it’s impossible to search for missing persons without following their digital footprints. Now, I log in and look up Tamara Levesque.
Immediately, a page for Gleeson College loads up. I discover dozens of photos of a college campus surrounded by rolling green hills and old brick buildings. There are pictures of laughing kids sitting outside, more smiling students inside classrooms. It takes me a bit to pick out Tamara. She’s pictured in a lab, her face partially obscured by goggles as she handles a flask over a Bunsen burner. Her black hair is pulled back tight—Tamara’s image on the license, versus Angelique’s heavy ringlets from her missing poster. But it’s the same girl.
Which leaves me even more confused. Angelique is using her fake ID to enroll in college? That makes no sense at all. So what did Angelique need me to see here? What’s she trying to tell us?
Gleeson College is listed as a small liberal arts college. It appears to rest at the foothills of the Berkshires, with the address given as some town I’ve never heard of. It offers online classes as well as a traditional classroom education. I peruse photo after photo of beaming college students, then read a note from the president—a stern-looking white dude in thick black glasses and gray three-piece suit. I didn’t know people still wore three-piece suits.
I review each photo in detail, then return to the collection as a whole. All in all, Gleeson College looks just like any other New England university, albeit with a particularly pretty campus.
It’s not until my fifth or sixth time through that I spot it. In the background, another female student barely visible in the rear of a classroom. Livia Samdi. I’m certain of it.
She and Angelique ran away to join a college? No way. I don’t believe it for a minute. So what the hell is going on?
I sit back, feeling more lost now than before.
After another minute, I expand my Google search to Gleeson College as a whole. The website, however, mostly seems to repeat the photos from Instagram. I find a page where I can request additional information; I plug in my e-mail, hoping I’ll hear back sooner versus later.
Then I get up and pace the entire length of the dining room several times.
In the end, there’s only one thing I can think of to do next. I need to speak with Livia’s mom, Roseline Samdi. Presumably without getting shot at again, which is easier said than done.
More pacing. Finally, it comes to me. I creep back upstairs and snag my jacket and flip phone. Lotham is snoring away, a soft, rumbling sound at odds with the deep scowl etched into his troubled face. I don’t think his dreams are happy ones. One more thing we have in common.
I return downstairs, where I fumble through my jacket pocket till I find what I’m looking for: the phone list from my first AA meeting. Which includes Charlie’s number. Six a.m. is definitely early by most night owls’ standards. Charlie still picks up almost immediately.
“Who’s this?”
“Frankie Elkin.”
A pause. “You doing okay, Frankie?”
“I’m not about to take a drink, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I could use some help.”
I explain to him about the discovery of Livia Samdi’s body, coupled with the revelation that she has an older brother.
“I don’t know the family well enough to know anything about that,” Charlie says.
“I understand. I want to meet with Roseline. But last time I went to the house . . . Let’s just say I like my head bullet-free.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Do you think you could reach out? AA to AA? Maybe get her to meet you somewhere. Say that little diner where you took me. I need to get her on neutral ground.”
“I don’t know if she’d listen.”
“But you could try. Tell her you have information. About her daughter. But for her ears only. Which is true. I do have information for her ears only.”
Charlie is silent for a long time. “I’ll try,” he says at last. “But no promises.”
“Thank you, Charlie. And just . . . Well, I need to speak to her as soon as possible. Angelique Badeau’s life is at stake.”
“You remember what I said before? Plenty of folks don’t like trouble. Especially some white woman barging in when she’s not welcome and not wanted.”
“Story of my life, big guy.” Pause, then I say more softly, “I want to bring Angelique home. I want to get this right. I need to get this right.”
“‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,’” Charlie intones.
“I know.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But my guess is that family doesn’t rise before noon, so it’ll be a few hours.”
“Thank you, Charlie.”
He disconnects. I close up my phone. Noon gives me a solid five hours to do something. Next logical line of questioning? I mull the matter over while I climb back up the stairs. I open my door, then halt in my tracks.
Lotham’s eyes are open and fully alert. He’s not moving, though. Possibly because Piper is also awake and now perched on top of the bed, glaring at him.
“Help,” he says as I enter my apartment.
“Is the big bad boxer scared of a little kitty?”
“Help,” he says again.
But I don’t move closer. I still have blood on my arm from last night. “I looked up Gleeson College. One of the pictures shows Livia Samdi in the background. I’m sure of it.”
“What?” Lotham is startled enough to twist toward me. Piper immediately growls. He returns to his frozen state. I kind of like this game. And the view’s not bad at all. Lotham, in a tight-fitting tank, is one good-looking man.
“Hang on, I’ll find some food to distract her. Be right back.”
“You’re leaving me alone with her?”
“You have a gun.”
�
�I’m not shooting a cat!”
“Good. Because I’m pretty sure she’ll pull a Pet Sematary and come back even scarier.”
I retreat downstairs, where I find a small container marked “Piper” in Viv’s refrigerator. I dish out a few pieces of something that smells plenty foul and carry it back to my apartment. Piper is still on Lotham watch. Lotham still hasn’t moved a muscle.
I set the dish on the floor. Minutes pass. Then with a final twitch of her tail, Piper leaps gracefully from the bed and pads over to the peace offering. She gives me a narrow look, then gulps down the pieces of chicken liver in two bites before retreating once more under the bed.
“It is now safe to move about the cabin,” I inform Lotham. “Just don’t step too close to the mattress. She likes to go for the heels.”
“Great.” Lotham sits all the way up, looking discombobulated, though whether that’s from his long night, too little sleep, or a homicidal wake-up call, it’s hard to be sure.
“I gotta go to work,” he says.
Makes sense. I move to the end of the mattress, where I manage to climb up with a lunging step designed to avoid raking claws. I cross my legs, eye my evening’s catch. I like the detective. I think he likes me. But I’m still not sure if I want to tell him about my plans regarding Roseline Samdi. In my experience, men tend to be overprotective, especially law enforcement types. Then I tend to get cranky, if not downright rebellious.
I should learn from my mistakes, but again, one of those things that’s easier said than done.
“Who’s Paul?” Lotham asks.
“Don’t you have a murder to investigate?”
“I can spare five minutes.”
“Too bad. The story takes at least thirty.”
“Former lover, boyfriend, husband?”
“I’ve never been married.”
He nods, that tells him enough. “How long were you together?”
“Nine months. Maybe a year. Depends how you want to count things.”
“The infamous ‘we can’t even agree on our first date’?”
“Something like that. We met twelve years ago. He helped me get sober the first time around. He believed in me, when I needed someone to have more faith and perseverance than I did.”
“And now?”
“Turned out ‘normal’ life wasn’t for me. Not to mention he didn’t approve of my new hobby. He thought I was being obsessive and self-destructive, substituting one addiction for another. It happens.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“No. Just a man with a savior complex.”
“So he helped you get sober—”
“I got myself sober, thank you very much.”
“Touché. But you meet. First him helping, then it becoming more, until you get too interested in playing detective—”
“Are you trying to die this morning?”
“I had a rough night.”
“Me, too, buddy. You want answers, ask some honest questions.”
Lotham is silent for a while. His breathing has accelerated. Mine, too.
“Where is Paul now?”
“We parted ways ten years ago.”
“Are you still in touch?”
“I dial his number on occasion.”
“And he takes your call?”
“No. His widow does.”
Lotham doesn’t speak anymore. Neither do I.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last.
“Nothing to do with you.”
“Still . . .”
“Like you said, you have a murder investigation. And I have work to do, as well.”
“Bartending tonight?”
“Shift starts at three.”
“Until then?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do my best not to get shot at or chased by anyone who looks like a mall-walking gangbanger.”
“A girl has been murdered. Things are getting serious.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re a civilian—”
“Get out of my bed, Detective. Shower is that way, if you’re interested. There’s food down the street. As for me, I don’t require a babysitter. I have my own life to tend to.”
“Is it because Paul died?” Lotham asks me, his voice softer, genuinely curious. “And now you can’t trust anyone?”
I lean forward slightly. “Or maybe, because I can’t trust anyone, Paul died.”
I climb off the bed, turning my back on the detective, and stripping off clothes. He wants to take in the show, that’s his problem. I have work to do.
I pull on jeans, find a fresh T-shirt. And maybe, because the universe has its own sense of humor, the one I grab happens to be a faded red shirt with the stick figure of a happy camper standing in front of an old VW bus and distant mountains. Life Is Good. Paul gave it to me to celebrate three months sober, when we officially inaugurated our burgeoning relationship by going camping. The cotton is worn with age, a soft caress against my skin.
I don’t look at Lotham. I grab my tennis shoes, head for the door. He doesn’t call me back. Which is good, as I rat-a-tat down the stairs and into bright daylight.
Sun is still shining. The world still spinning.
And Angelique Badeau is still missing.
I get to work.
CHAPTER 31
I head to Franklin Park; it would be faster to take a bus, but after the night’s adventures I could use the exercise to settle my churning mind. The park is on the map Charadee from Dunkin’ Donuts drew for me the other day—a massive green space just beyond the rec center. The rec center is my next stop, but I doubt Frédéric will be in till late morning. And maybe it’s my mood, or maybe it’s another sign of my obsession, but I want to see where Livia’s body was found.
I agreed with Lotham last night. How terrible to lose a child most of the world never knew was missing. Is that why I do what I do? Because I can’t stand the thought of a life not mattering? Of a child being forgotten? Or a person sinking without leaving behind a single ripple in the universe?
I don’t know. The vulnerability of Livia Samdi or Angelique Badeau speaks to me. After all, my own ties to this world are delicate at best. Should one of these cases take a wrong turn, that speeding bullet finally catch up with me . . . I don’t know that there would even be a funeral. Maybe I’ll just be gone. Which is both terrifying and comforting.
The walk is longer than I expected. A solid hour up a broad avenue. The weather is mild, the sun having traded in its summer warmth for fall chill. But the exercise refreshes me, helps clear my head and makes me glad I headed outdoors.
I come to the zoo first. It’s small but charming, a classic city setup. This early it’s still closed, but I spy a few women with young children prowling the fenced perimeter. No doubt they’ve been up since the crack of dawn and are already desperate for distraction.
I find a path and walk, though given the massive size of the park, wandering around aimlessly is probably not my best strategy. I decide to stick close to the main road that winds through the green space. I’ve played this game before, and the sad reality is that a human corpse can be carried only so far. Ergo, any body dump is going to be near a major thoroughfare.
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later I come across the first police cruiser, parked alongside the road to ward off looky-loos. Deeper into the park, near a copse of trees, I can just make out a sliver of yellow among the leaves. Crime scene tape. I have arrived.
I make a left turn, cresting a small rise. From this angle, I can peer down at the secured area. Another uniformed officer is pacing the perimeter, around and around. Poor officer has probably been here most of the night and is now doing his best to stay awake.
I can’t see much. A few trees, a smattering of thick green bushes. I should’ve asked Lotham more questions. Was the body fou
nd laid out peacefully? Hands crossed over chest? Or just tossed to the ground? I’m no expert on murder, but I’ve been around enough investigations to know there’s a difference. One being more personal, tinged with regret, colored by remorse. Say, what might happen if a family member had been forced to take dramatic action versus a third party who’d grown impatient with a terrified teen.
Livia’s nails were chewed down to the nub, Lotham had said. A clear sign of stress.
I continue my study, and within minutes, I know what I need to know. There are plenty of other places to dump a body in this city. Dumpsters, back alleyways, abandoned buildings. But this placement: beautiful, serene, private.
The kind of person who would bring Livia’s body here is the kind of someone who cared.
Livia’s mysterious older brother? Or perhaps her other brother, drug-dealing J.J.? What about Angelique herself? Had she been forced to participate in this atrocity? Again, control 101. Establish fear and intimidation through death and destruction of the people your subject cares about most.
The pieces of this case swirl around me. Two girls with promising futures. At least one scam involving fake IDs. Coupled with a second scam involving a scenic university in Western Mass. Except what did that mean? Because both Livia and Angelique were pictured at the college, yet I didn’t believe for a minute they’d run away to join some college under fake names.
I stand on the pathway. I can hear birds chirping, feel a soft breeze on my face. It is peaceful. It is beautiful.
I gaze down again where a girl’s body was abandoned just last night. Livia Samdi deserved so much better. She deserved being found alive. She deserved growing up, discovering her own unique self. She deserved a life.
I feel now, more than ever, the weight of my own failure.
So many missing persons cases. And yet none I’ve brought home alive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Livia Samdi. Then I stand quietly and just be. Weigh the magnitude of my regrets. Resolve to do better, because that’s the best any of us can do.
Then, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later, I head back down the path, keeping away from the police, to the entrance of the park. Ten a.m. I already know where I’m headed next. Hopefully Frédéric will now be at work at the rec center.
