Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  Maybe I don’t know any better. I finally move away from the door and approach. “Look at me.”

  Riddenscail drops his hand. His cheeks are wet with tears. He looks devastated.

  “Don’t you think this is a bit much for a student you claim you didn’t even know?”

  “I knew enough. I saw enough. What, you think I’m doing this job for the great pay?” He waves his hand around the tired classroom, with its beat-up linoleum floor and stained drop ceiling. “I show up each day for kids like Livia. The ones who sit in front of those computers, and for the first time in their lives can see their own futures. The software clicks for them, 3D design makes sense. And just like that, they have college potential and job opportunities and an entirely new track to follow. Those kids make everything else worth it. Those kids are why people like me become teachers in the first place.”

  I continue to regard him suspiciously, but I’m finding less and less justification. So far, this conversation isn’t going anything like I’d thought.

  “Could Livia have forged a driver’s license? Did she understand design and computers that well?”

  Riddenscail stares at me. Abruptly, he reaches into his pocket. I’m just stiffening in alarm when he withdraws a small key, inserts it into the lock on his desk drawer, and opens it. He pulls out his wallet, from which he takes his driver’s license. For inspection, I realize. Because how many of us truly pay attention to such things.

  “You were asking about forgeries and stamps earlier. Could Livia forge something. But I thought you were looking at currency.”

  “We’re now thinking fake IDs.”

  He nods slowly, turns his own Massachusetts driver’s license over in his hand. “The background, definitely easy. I bet you can find a template online. The hologram, that’s specialized technology, ink. I don’t think she could do that. Certainly, I don’t know how.”

  “She faked it with brighter ink. Not perfect, but close enough for say, getting into a bar.”

  “Given that, yeah, Livia could design and print out a license. Especially if the standard is merely close enough. But I never saw her working on anything like that here. Not that she’d need the AutoCAD. This is way simpler than 3D design. But she would need a computer and a very high-quality printer for the specialty inks.”

  “You have that kind of printer here?”

  “Yes. But I don’t have fancy ink cartridges. The basic ones are expensive enough.”

  “Detective Lotham will be here soon with a warrant. And given that printers store information in their cache, you might as well tell me now.”

  Riddenscail shakes his head. “I have nothing to tell. If Livia was counterfeiting licenses, it wasn’t on my watch and it wasn’t here. I haven’t seen her since January. So warrant away. For that matter, this school is covered in cameras. Check them, too. Livia hasn’t been here. If she had . . . I would’ve tried to get her back into school. I would’ve tried to connect with her, find out what made her go away. I would’ve—”

  His voice breaks. He rubs his eyes again.

  I want to say something, press the advantage, but I’ve got nothing. Abruptly, I feel stupid, standing in front of a classroom, making a grown man cry.

  “Did you ever see Livia with a tall, skinny guy, prone to retro fashion statements?”

  Mr. Riddenscail looks right at me. “Older guy? Definitely. At the rec center. He met up with her several times when she was done. I assumed he was her father, come to walk her home. I thought it was sweet.”

  “He wasn’t her father,” I inform him, “but her recently paroled half brother. If you see him again, please contact the police immediately.”

  “Okay.” Mr. Riddenscail’s voice has dropped again, clearly getting overwhelmed.

  “Have you ever heard of Gleeson College?” I press him, trying desperately to gain some shred of data from this conversation. “It’s located in Western Mass.”

  “No. But then, I can’t even begin to list all the colleges in Boston.”

  “Can I show you something? On your computer. It’ll only take a minute.”

  He nods, pushing back from his desk as I take over the keyboard. I load up the website for Gleeson College, scrolling through till I find the picture with Livia in the background. Then I gesture for Riddenscail to join me.

  “That certainly looks like Livia. On a college website. Huh.” He frowns, grabbing the mouse and scrolling down the page to view more photos. Then he clicks on various options from the drop-down menu, surfing the site, with its photo after photo of laughing, happy kids sitting before rolling green hills. “Hang on. I may have something for you. I swear I’ve seen this before . . .”

  More internet navigation. Riddenscail flies across the screen, clearly a guy comfortable with technology. He opens and closes a series of pages in rapid succession. I barely have time to note the names of colleges before he’s moved on, one after another after another.

  Then: “Got it.” He steps back, indicating for me to move in closer. I study the screen, then frown at him. “You have the website open in two different windows.”

  “Look at the title bar.”

  I read the headings. Gleeson College, says one. Lannister College, says the other. The photos are the same. Smiling kids in classrooms. Laughing kids hanging out in front of rolling green hills. They aren’t similar; they’re identical.

  “Give me a sec.” Riddenscail grabs the keyboard, his fingers flying. He’s back on the page for Gleeson, clicking on links at the bottom. Again, too fast for me to follow.

  “Okay, you need a computer forensic specialist to be sure, but this website for Gleeson, it’s months old. As in, this whole college magically sprang to life over the summer. With most of these photos lifted from other colleges’ websites. At least the outside shots and pictures of buildings. And I’m going to guess from several different schools, now that I’m studying it more.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Let me put it this way. I don’t know if Livia was faking licenses, but to judge by this website, she definitely faked a school. Though why you’d invent an entire college . . .” Riddenscail shakes his head at me. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I exit Livia’s school feeling befuddled and overwhelmed. I need to get back to Stoney’s for my work shift. I need to call Lotham and let him know about Gleeson College. I need . . . magic answers, the secrets of the universe, an X that marks the spot. I rub my forehead, squinting against the bright sun as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

  I’d just flipped it open when it starts ringing. I answer it in surprise. “Hello?”

  “This is Emmanuel. They say the police found a girl’s body. In Franklin Park. Is it . . .”

  “Oh, honey. It’s not Angelique. I’m so sorry, Emmanuel. You didn’t need to be worried. If it were Angelique, your family would be the first notified, not the morning news.”

  Emmanuel doesn’t speak right away. I can hear his breathing, hard and ragged. He must’ve been terrified. And why the hell hadn’t Lotham or Officer O’Shaughnessy contacted Guerline and her nephew?

  “What . . . what about the other girl?” Emmanuel murmurs. “LiLi’s secret friend?”

  I wince. I’d hoped he wouldn’t connect those dots. I’m not sure how much I should say without his aunt present. But my general policy is to start with the truth.

  “The body was identified as Livia Samdi.”

  Loud swallow. “How was she killed?”

  “The police are still investigating.”

  “And LiLi? Have there been any more sightings? Now, with her friend dead . . .” His voice edges toward fresh panic.

  “No new sightings. But that’s good, Emmanuel. It means she’s alive. We’re going to find her.”

  Long pause. Then, very softly: “I’m scared.”

 
“I’m scared, too.”

  “You said you found people. Why can’t you find her? Why can’t anyone find LiLi?”

  I give him a moment to deal with his grief. Of course he’s frustrated and terrified. I’m the professional, and I feel the same way myself. So I treat Emmanuel how I would like to be treated. I give him something to do.

  “Emmanuel, have you ever heard of Gleeson College?”

  “No.” Shuddery sigh. He’s regaining control, caught off guard by my question. Which is exactly what I wanted.

  “It appears Livia or your sister created a website for a fake college. Can you think of any reason why? The website is new, as in from this summer. I’m guessing you’ll be able to determine that much. Most of it appears to be derived from stock photos copied from other, existing universities.”

  “I . . . I don’t know why anyone would do that. Gleeson C? I’ll look it up.”

  Perfect project for the internet junkie and a legitimate task. Our assumption had been that Angelique and Livia had been kept alive for their skills. Though forging a college had never entered our thoughts. And still confused me. But still. The college was a forgery, as Riddenscail had revealed. Completed this summer. With Livia now dead just months later. Because that had been the task and it had been completed? Though again, what could be so special about a college website?

  I momentarily change gears. “What about the name Deke? Or, have you seen a tall skinny guy in a tracksuit and gold chains hanging around your house?”

  “No, no. I don’t know any Deke. Is he another new friend of my sister’s?”

  “He’s a person of interest in the investigation,” I say, sounding so much like a cop I’m worried Lotham has contaminated me.

  “A suspect?” Now Emmanuel is excited.

  “Not necessarily. But close. We’re making progress. I promise, Emmanuel. There is nothing more important to me right now than your sister. Me, Detective Lotham, Officer O’Shaughnessy, we are on this. Full time, all the time, completely obsessed. Now, shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “I was. But then I heard the news. And I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t. I am outside now. There’s a no-cell-phones policy in the classrooms.” Emmanuel pauses. “I found something.”

  “With the fake license? You decoded the number?” My turn for excitement.

  “I can’t figure out the license number. It is something, but I’m not sure what. I have a friend with a computer program for algorithms. I’m taking it to him. But the other things, my mother’s birthday, the year of Haiti’s independence. LiLi misses my mom.”

  I nod into the phone. He had mentioned this before.

  “So . . . I got down my mother’s picture. And I opened it up.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him I already tried that trick.

  “There’s a piece of paper in the back. With a note from LiLi and a drawing from me. It is our offering to our manman. But this time, when I unfolded it, another slip of paper fell out.”

  Now he has my attention. I’d just noted the sweet picture, never realizing it was on a folded scrap of paper. I’d been focused on locating evidence of more obvious crimes.

  “It’s a receipt to an electronics store. Written across the top is a number. A phone number, in LiLi’s handwriting.”

  “Emmanuel, do you have the receipt on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at it. What did she purchase?”

  “I already saw. A Tracfone.”

  And just like that, I’m beyond excited. “Emmanuel, this is perfect! We know your sister had been using a burner phone, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the police haven’t been able to do anything without a phone number. There’s nothing to trace, track, et cetera.”

  “You can trace a Tracfone?”

  “If it has GPS technology, yes you can. And these days, most of them do. It also has to be on at the moment of tracking.”

  Emmanuel is getting it now. “The police, they could ping this number? Locate my sister? Just like that?”

  “Assuming she has the phone on her.” I hesitate, just now seeing the flaw in my plan. “Which . . . may be a long shot. I’m assuming she bought the phone last fall?”

  “August thirty-first.”

  “I would guess it’s the one she used to communicate with Livia. Once Angelique disappeared, I don’t know if she would’ve kept the phone.” If she would’ve been allowed it, assuming she was being held against her will.

  “Oh.” Emmanuel’s voice grows small. He’s a smart kid. He already understands what I’m not saying. What kind of kidnapper lets his victim keep her cell phone?

  “But.” I do my best to rally. “There’s other information the police should be able to access, including previous calls, copies of texts, saved voice mails. There’s no telling how much we’ll learn from those alone. Including exactly what Angelique and Livia were up to.”

  “Livia is dead,” Emmanuel says. His voice has definitely changed. He sounds flat, almost grim. Like a thirty-year-old man, versus a teen. “If she’s been killed . . .”

  “We’re going to find your sister, Emmanuel. And you finding this receipt, that’s huge. Your sister’s talking, but you’re the one hearing. You get her messages.” My voice grows thick, despite myself. “You’re doing right by her, Emmanuel. I can’t . . .” My voice trails off. I have no words to tell him the power of this bond. I just hope he understands. Whatever happens next, it’s not his fault. It’s on me. And Detective Lotham. And neither one of us wants that kind of regret.

  Though I can already picture Livia’s brother J.J. The kind of grief and rage that had the tattoos crawling across his skin. I would like to say we will do better, but fifteen dead bodies later, I don’t know. And it haunts me. Every case, every discovery, Lani Whitehorse’s body at the bottom of her local lake, it all haunts me.

  I force myself to speak: “I need you to contact Officer O’Shaughnessy. Let him know about the receipt. The police need it immediately.”

  “I have it in a plastic bag,” Emmanuel says.

  Which makes me smile. His very own evidence bag. He has been paying attention.

  “Gleeson College,” I remind him, glancing at my watch. I need to get moving.

  “I’ll look it up,” he promises.

  “The site includes a photo with your sister, as well as one with Livia. Just so you know.”

  “I’m good with websites. I should be able to learn more, especially if it’s new, and copied from other sites.”

  “Thank you, Emmanuel. And just . . . keep an eye out. Okay? For your sister, for anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I’m spending the afternoon at my friend’s.”

  “Good. Sounds like a plan.”

  Emmanuel ends the call, I remain standing on the corner, phone still in hand. I’m exhausted, I realize now. And overwhelmed, but also overstimulated. Hyperaware. Which makes me feel it. That itch between the shoulder blades. Someone is watching me. I turn in place, not caring if I’m being obvious. I have to know. I want to see him.

  But I just spot random pedestrians walking down the street. One guy here. Two women there. It’s quiet this time of day. A little too late for lunch, a little too early to be headed home.

  One last look, then I start walking to the larger boulevard. I’m going to have to flag down a taxi, burn through more precious dollars. But I’m running out of time.

  Angelique’s running out of time.

  I dial up Lotham and prepare for his next lecture.

  * * *

  —

  I come flying into work right at three p.m., after having just enough time to dart upstairs, wash my hands and face, and clip back my hair. Perfectly ready. Not late at all. I hit the tables, grabbing chairs, flipping them to the floor. Spray, wipe, spray, wipe. Then behind t
he bar, drying trays of clean glasses, stacking them up. To the kitchen. Lemons, limes, and cutting board. Slice, peel, slice, peel. Garnish tray filled. Countertop sparkling. Peanut bowls filled, ketchup bottles topped off. Beer kegs properly pressurized.

  Ten minutes left, I attack the shelves of booze, pulling down each bottle, furiously wiping everything, then lining the bottles back up in perfect order. I scrub down the edge of the shelves, touch up the mirrored backdrop.

  When I turn around, Stoney is standing there, staring at me.

  “Rough day?” he asks.

  “My head hurts.”

  “Heard they found a girl’s body.”

  “Livia Samdi. The other missing girl.” I falter, my hands falling to the countertop. “She was murdered.”

  Stoney waits.

  “I’ve been trying so hard to figure out the missing pieces, to reconstruct the trail that will lead us to both Livia and Angelique. But I didn’t make it in time. Once again, I’m too late.” I hate the raw edge to my voice, but I can’t stop it. These cases shouldn’t be personal to me. But they are. That’s the thing I can’t help, and Paul couldn’t understand.

  Stoney waits.

  “I just . . . I want to get it right,” I confess in a rush. “I want to be the one who brings home the missing loved one. I want to be there for the parade of hugs and sheer relief. Fourteen cases later, I need to get it right.”

  “Angelique Badeau is still alive,” Stoney states.

  “As far as we know.”

  “Then you still got a job to do.” Stoney holds up his key ring.

  I get his drift. Working out there, working in here. Livia is gone. But Angelique still needs me. Charlie would approve of this strategy. Focus on the souls you can still save.

  Not on the pieces of yourself you lost along the way.

  I unlock the front door and get to it. Happy hour starts off too slow for my jangly nerves. I refill peanut bowls the second they’re down a nut, top off water glasses after the first sip. Given how many of my customers didn’t even ask for water, I earn plenty of strange looks. But I have to keep moving. To stand still is to think. To think is to descend once more into the abyss. Fake IDs, fake colleges, one dead girl. And one caring younger brother desperate to see his sister again.