Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  J.J. doesn’t answer right away. But there’s a look in his eyes. It wasn’t the half brother Roseline Samdi was referring to. It was J.J. and his cronies, and he knows it.

  “Would Deke know about making forgeries? Licenses, money, green cards, anything?” I force J.J. to focus on me again. I need him thinking. Angelique Badeau needs him thinking.

  “I heard rumors,” J.J. says at last. “Deke with some real OGs, courtesy of his dear old dad. They wanted to go upmarket. None of this drug shit. They wanted to be, like, crime bosses or something. Huge scores, major paydays. Word on the street was that they were in talks with some other gang. Gonna buy their way in. That’s what the robberies were about. Proving themselves.”

  “And this other gang dealt in forgeries?”

  “I dunno. Umm, coupla years after Deke left, I found some money. In a shoebox, back of the closet. Piles of hundreds. My lucky day, I thought. I started spending them left and right. Money, rent, you name it.”

  Drugs.

  “Next thing I know, some dude is screaming at me I paid him in fakes. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I managed to talk my way out of it, but after that, I hid the rest. Didn’t want to stir up more trouble.”

  “Your mother always live at that house? Even with your half brother, Deke?”

  “We haven’t gone anywhere.”

  “Meaning the fake bills, they could’ve been Deke’s, part of his new criminal enterprise?”

  “Coulda. I was just a kid.”

  But I’m already nodding. The counterfeit hundreds had to be the older half brother’s stash. It was the only thing that made sense. Part of a larger operation he’d started, only to get busted and sent to prison. He must not have told anyone about it, hence the bills were all but forgotten before J.J. stumbled upon them. Years later, Livia probably did the same.

  Except maybe she’d recognized the bills as counterfeit from the start. Either way, she knew enough not to tell her brother J.J. Instead, she smuggled them out of the house, giving them to her new friend, Angelique, for safekeeping.

  And became inspired as well? Fake hundreds, fake licenses. Maybe she’d decided to take a crack at it with her own design skills and new and improved computer technology. That part I don’t completely understand yet. More importantly, how did Deke fit into that scenario? Because clearly, he was out of prison and tracking his baby half sister. He approached her? She approached him?

  “Was Livia ever close to your half brother?” I ask now.

  J.J. shakes his head. “She was three when he took off.”

  “Did he seem partial to her? Like protective or anything?”

  “Hell if I know. That’s too long ago.”

  I nod, decide to come at it from a different direction. “What about school? Did your sister ever mention one of her teachers, Mr. Riddenscail?”

  “Nah.”

  “He also worked at the rec center. Part of the after-school programming?”

  “How many times can I say, I don’t know!”

  “It’s okay, J.J. I understand. You had your life, and your sister had hers. And part of your life was to get her out of here. Part of your life was to ensure she could do better.”

  He doesn’t answer, but his silence tells me enough.

  “Your sister met her teacher, Mr. Riddenscail, here.” I gesture to the rec center behind us. “Your sister also met your older half brother, Deke, on this property. Why, J.J.? I need to know why.”

  But J.J. can’t answer the question. I can see it in the growing wildness around his eyes. He loved his sister, but he hadn’t spent time with her. He didn’t know her as well as I needed him to know her right now.

  Had anyone?

  “I fucking hate you,” J.J. whispers.

  “I understand,” I assure him softly. “Some days, I hate me, too. But I’m going to find out who killed your sister, and you’re going to help me. Because she deserved better, right? Because . . . She was Livia Samdi. Bright and clever and alive. And the world should mourn her. All of us should know your pain. She is worth it.”

  He nods miserably.

  “I need you to tell me where I can find Deke.”

  “Oh, I’ll find him—”

  “No, no, no. We need him alive. I have questions only he can answer. For your sister’s sake, no killing your half brother. Promise me, J.J.”

  “Livia’s dead,” he says. And I can tell from the look on his face that it’s the first time he’s spoken the words out loud. The permanence of them is like a knife, slashing across his face. What it leaves behind . . . Even I have to look away.

  I smooth my hand one last time across J.J.’s shoulder, then pull back. I’m sorry for his loss. All these years later, I’m sorry for my loss, too.

  “Your sister loved Angelique Badeau. Whatever happened this past year, they were in it together. I know it. We find Angelique, we discover who killed your sister. We do right by both of them. Okay? So Deke. Where can I find him?”

  J.J. doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he takes a deep breath. Straightens up. Returns the gun to the waistband of his jeans.

  He picks up my phone from where it dropped on the ground, flipping it open. His fingers fly across the tiny keys. Then he folds it closed, hands it back to me.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “When the time comes, I’ll find you.”

  CHAPTER 33

  I feel like I have my breathing relatively under control by the time I dial Lotham, but I must not be as good as I think because in a matter of seconds:

  “What’s wrong? Where are you? Is it the guy in the tracksuit?”

  “The guy in the tracksuit has a name. Deke. He’s Livia and Johnson Samdi’s older half brother.”

  “What?”

  “I ran into J.J.”

  “What?”

  “This would go faster if you’d stop interrupting.”

  “Are you okay? Tell me that much.”

  “I’m fine. I visited the rec center. Now I’m walking home having made some progress.” I’m not walking home, but I don’t feel like telling Lotham that particular detail. “From the top?”

  “Christ,” Lotham says. He sounds exhausted. “From the top.”

  “Roseline Samdi has an older son named Deke by another man. Apparently, Deke has been in prison for armed robbery, but he’s clearly out now, and he’s the one who was watching Livia at the rec center.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. According to J.J., his own mother would have nothing to do with Deke, he’s such a cold bastard. But get this. Shortly after Deke went to prison, young J.J. stumbled upon a shoe box filled with counterfeit hundreds. He was working his way through spending them all when he got caught passing forgeries. After that, he tucked the rest away, where I’m guessing Livia discovered them years later.”

  “Older brother Deke had a stash of counterfeit hundreds?”

  “Apparently he was an aspirational criminal. Wanted to get into the big leagues. Armed robbery was a means to buy his way into another, larger criminal enterprise that offered better career advancement.”

  Lotham doesn’t talk right away. It’s a lot to take in, so I don’t blame him.

  “You think Deke knew his half siblings were peddling his pre-prison counterfeit stash?”

  “I don’t know. Deke is clearly out now and had some kind of interaction with Livia. Livia had clearly discovered the counterfeit bills and passed them along to Angelique. Which leaves us with? Half brother and sister comparing notes on forgeries, bigger criminal enterprises, future career opportunities? Hell if I know. But Marjolie links Livia to Deke, and according to J.J., anything involving Deke is bad news.”

  “You got a last name?” Lotham asks.

  “I didn’t think to ask that,” I admit.

  “Can’t be too hard to track
down. One paroled armed robber named Deke. Vice or gang taskforce probably has him on file.”

  “But wait, there’s more.”

  Another silence. This one radiates tension. As if Lotham is angry at me. Which gets me huffy, because what does he have to be pissed off about? I’m the one doing all the work here.

  “Go ahead,” he says at last, and there’s definitely a cool edge to his voice. Big bad Boston cop frustrated that the civilian is making all the cool discoveries? Fuck him, I think. But my feelings are hurt.

  “I went to the rec center,” I hear myself say, “to talk with the director again. Turns out, in addition to the summer program, the center offers after-school activities. Including a class in computer design taught by none other than Mr. Riddenscail. Who wrote a grant gifting the center with twelve computers and one 3D printer.”

  Lotham manages not to exclaim what this time, but I can tell he’s thinking it.

  “Livia Samdi was in that class,” he states.

  “Yep.”

  “Angelique?”

  “I didn’t ask. Livia’s attendance is grounds enough for a warrant, right? I mean, she goes missing, then turns up dead. Surely some judge somewhere will grant you access to the rec center’s computers.”

  “I think I can manage that much.”

  “Don’t hurt anything.” Now I’m the edgy one.

  “I looked up Paul,” Lotham says abruptly. “I found the case, Frankie. I know what happened.”

  I don’t say anything. It’s not a question and doesn’t deserve an answer. Besides, it’s none of his business. It’s no one’s business but mine and Paul’s. And yet all these years later, ten long years later, I can feel my throat closing up and my eyes starting to sting.

  I think of J.J. and his feral grief. I know exactly how he feels.

  “What are you doing?” Lotham asks me quietly. “Between you and me, Frankie. What are you doing here?”

  “Finding Angelique Badeau.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “And if you get yourself killed in the process? Is that what you want? You don’t have the courage to do it yourself, so you’ll just keeping chasing this madness till someone does it for you?”

  “Fuck you.” But there’s no heat behind the words. He’s not saying anything I haven’t wondered myself. “Don’t you have a murder to investigate?”

  “As I believe you told me once, I can multitask.”

  “Then what do you have to show for the morning, because I just gave you plenty.”

  “I have bags of trace evidence and piles of security feeds to watch. I can tell you a plain white van pulled into Franklin Park shortly after midnight. I know the license plate was smeared with mud to obscure the numbers. I can tell you the driver’s face is hard to make out, but height and profile is about right to be a tall, skinny Black male. I can also tell you, there was a passenger in the van. She was wearing a ball cap.”

  “Deke and Angelique,” I murmur. But then I catch myself. “Except it can’t be Deke, because he was standing outside my window last night.”

  “According to the time stamp on the video . . . You’re probably right, it’s not Deke.”

  Which leaves me as confused as Lotham feels. Clearly there were other players involved, who’d kidnapped Angelique and Livia, who most likely took turns watching over the girls. But again, who and why? What the hell had Angelique and Livia gotten themselves into that involved both of them missing for nearly a year, not to mention a college in Western Mass?

  “I have to go,” I tell Lotham.

  “I need to know you’re being careful, Frankie. No chasing down this Deke. Meeting with J.J. Samdi was risky enough.”

  “I’m not looking for Deke,” I say, thinking, no need. J.J.’s got it covered.

  “Will you please talk to me?”

  “No. This is my life, my choices. Manage your own.”

  I click off the phone. I honestly don’t want to hear it. I’m well aware of my strengths, and I’m well aware of my weaknesses. And I’ve designed a lifestyle that fits both accordingly.

  Right now, that lifestyle involves locating Angelique Badeau.

  I don’t have a time machine. There’s nothing I can do that will ever change what happened ten years ago. No amount of handwashing that erases the blood, no amount of repenting that eases the guilt. I screwed up. Paul died. It is both that simple and that haunting.

  And now? Now my life is about helping others, serving victims.

  I already failed Livia Samdi. Meaning now, more than ever, I need to get this right.

  Angelique Badeau, here I come.

  * * *

  —

  I take a taxi to Livia’s school. I don’t have the time or energy to figure out the maze of buses it takes to get from here to there. Class is in session when I talk my way through the front doors and head to Mr. Riddenscail’s room. I let myself in, standing in the back. He’s not lecturing, but drifting from workstation to workstation, checking each student’s designs, offering comments here and there. He spots me immediately, pausing as he inspects a male student’s drawing on the computer monitor. His guilty conscience? Does he already know why I’m here or at least suspect he couldn’t get away with it forever?

  I’m not the police, but I don’t need to be. I want answers. After that, Lotham can have at him.

  I wait. Riddenscail continues to focus on his class. Twelve computers, I note now. The same number as at the rec center. This is where it started, I think. Whatever it is that got Livia and Angelique in so much trouble. The idea to design their own fake IDs? If a jerk like DommyJ could do it, why not them? Livia would be the design team, Angelique marketing. Both had the brains to think bigger, better. Livia would knock off near-perfect fakes. Angelique would sell them. Given the number of underage college kids in Boston looking to join Marjolie’s club-hopping and pub-crawling ways . . . That would certainly explain the amount of cash in Angelique’s lamp, while Livia would’ve contributed the counterfeit hundreds from her own household.

  Had they thought if they mixed the fake Franklins with real bills it would improve their chances of being able to spend the money?

  Which is where I started to get lost again. Why the college pics? No way two teenagers ran off to attend a college under an alias. Let alone, why would Angelique have dressed up as Livia to do so, and why would Livia appear so terrified?

  Then there was Livia’s meeting with her long-lost half brother. Not to mention Livia’s body, discovered just this morning, laid out in a tranquil park environment . . .

  Running out of time. Livia dead, Angelique soon to follow. What happened, what happened, what happened?

  I had so many questions for Mr. Riddenscail. And no more patience for lies.

  A bell finally rings. The students rise, pack up their stuff. Several of them eye me curiously. Mr. Riddenscail and I are the only white people in the room. Maybe they think I’m his girlfriend or an acquaintance coming to meet him. No one asks. The kids simply shuffle out the door, some already deep in conversation as they head to the next classroom.

  No kids file in to take their place. I must’ve caught Mr. Riddenscail on a break.

  He’s already moved to the front of the room, where he’s pecking away at his keyboard. Lotham should get a warrant for that computer. He probably will. He’s thorough that way. Looking up Paul . . .

  I order myself to focus.

  “I assume you have more questions about Livia?” Riddenscail says at last. “Or would you like to learn more about 3D printers, the AutoCAD platform, design basics?”

  “I’ve come from the rec center,” I say, watching him closely for his response.

  He taps a few more keys, then glances up. He regards me patiently, as if waiting for me to say more.

 
“I know about the grant. The computers and 3D printer you got for the after-school program. The class you taught there that also included Livia Samdi.”

  He continues to stare at me blankly.

  “Why didn’t you tell us that earlier?”

  “Honestly? I didn’t think of it. You were asking questions about Livia in this class, so that’s what I focused on.”

  “You made it sound like you didn’t really know her. Yet you had her for multiple classes at multiple locations. That doesn’t sound like a distant relationship to me.”

  “Actually, I told you I’d pushed her to sign up for a spring competition. That’s what she was working on at the rec center. Preparation. That location was more convenient for her, as it was walking distance from her house. Plus, she needed my help to figure out some of the newer tricks involving the software. So when I was running the after-school program at the rec center, it made more sense for her to join me there. I said she was gifted and I was trying to get her to come out of her shell. I’m sorry if I missed some of the details.”

  “Livia Samdi is dead.”

  Now I get a response. His face goes pale. He sits down heavily in his desk chair.

  “When?” he asks softly.

  “They found her body this morning.” I peer at him closely. But I don’t see any evidence of guilt. Just shock, and maybe even grief.

  He swallows hard. “What happened?”

  “Someone strangled her, then dumped her body in Franklin Park.”

  “Oh my God. That poor girl.” He trembles slightly, wipes at his eyes.

  “What was she doing here? What had she gotten herself into? It’s time to talk, Riddenscail. Before you find yourself hauled in on murder charges. What the hell did you have her doing?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I certainly didn’t kill anyone. She had such promise. I was sure she was going to get out, go off to college. I already hoped . . .”

  He shudders again, swipes his eyes with the back of his hand. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the man is crying.