Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  Lotham hadn’t been in a chatty mood when I’d called him. He’d been as confused as I was to learn that Gleeson C wasn’t a real college. Intrigued by the possibilities of the Tracfone receipt and phone number Emmanuel had discovered. And definitely mum on the subject of Deke’s last name, which I was already guessing wasn’t Samdi.

  Lotham had been denied the warrant for the rec center’s computer, he’d volunteered grumpily. Not enough probable cause that the computers were connected to Livia’s murder, given her body had been found nine months after she’d last visited the place. He should be able to get a warrant for Angelique’s missing Tracfone, however, and yeah, they could absolutely try pinging it, let alone the data dump of text messages, incoming calls, et cetera. At this point, we could use a lucky break.

  I’d ended the call with Lotham with the same tension we’d had at the beginning. Maybe Livia’s murder had taken its toll on both of us. Maybe we had taken a toll on us.

  Shortly after six p.m., a familiar form walks through the door and I exhale a giant sigh of heartfelt relief. Charlie ambles up to the bar and takes a seat. I already have a glass of water waiting for him. “Coffee, food, nonalcoholic beer?”

  “Viv working?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’ll take a burger. Tell her it’s for me.” The man definitely has a twinkle in his eye. And I bet when I mention his name, Viv will have that same sparkle. Have to hand it to the woman, she has good taste in men.

  I head to the kitchen to place the order. Sure enough, Viv positively preens. “You tell Charlie I got him covered.”

  “Aren’t you married?”

  “To the best man in the world, absolutely, honey. But it never hurts to look. YOLO, baby.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Don’t I know it. Speaking of which, where’s your handsome hunk this evening?”

  “Probably sitting at his desk sulking. Apparently, he likes his strong, independent women less strong and less independent. Men.” I shrug.

  “He’ll come around, sweet cheeks. The good ones always do.”

  “Ah, but being the strong independent type, I’m not sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.”

  “And more power to you. You give Charlie a hug for me. That man has the best arms.”

  I don’t want to know how she knows that. I return to the bar with a cup of fresh coffee for Charlie, then check in with a couple of customers. Next lull, I plant myself across from him, arms folded, ears waiting.

  “Sorry about Mrs. Samdi,” Charlie says. “I stopped by in person. Her son didn’t take it so well.”

  “It’s okay. In a weird way, it worked out. J.J. tracked me down himself, told me some interesting stories of an older half brother named Deke, who apparently had connections in the counterfeiting world as well as a penchant for armed robbery.”

  “Deke Alarie? You serious?”

  “That’s his full name? And I’m being completely serious. Now fess up. What should I know?”

  “Alarie’s a big name back in the day. French for ‘all power’ and, boy, did he live up to it. Cold bastard. If he decided he wanted what you had, or you were a threat to what he had . . .” Charlie shook his head. “Kind of guy who’d sell out his own mother to get ahead, that’s for sure. Maybe he did.”

  “I imagine he had some equally cold associates?”

  “Deke ran with a serious-shit kind of crowd. Kind of men you should have your detective friend look into. Not for you, little lady. Not for you.” Charlie’s deep voice is so serious, I’m almost tempted to listen. “Last I heard, Deke Alarie had just started some new business partnership, but then he got sent away for armed robbery, and that was that.”

  “What did you hear about him and counterfeit bills?”

  “Nothing. But if there was a gangster interested in getting involved in something that sophisticated . . . Yeah, Deke Alarie, I could see it.”

  “So maybe his new business partners hooked him up?”

  “Even gangsters have dreams, you know.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He gives me a wink. Then his expression sobers. “Any news on Angelique Badeau?”

  “Nothing yet. With Livia murdered . . . I don’t know. Something’s clearly changed and it can’t bode well for Angelique.” I lean closer. “We’re pretty sure Livia and Angelique were selling fake IDs. Except, I can’t figure out how that would lead to kidnapping. Like you and I talked about, sure, there’s money in fakes, but these aren’t top-dollar forgeries.”

  “DIY enterprise.”

  “Exactly. So how did they get from that to being abducted? Holding two teenagers against their will . . . That’s high-risk stuff, and complicated logistics. Gotta involve more than a few people, meaning also a larger-scale enterprise. No longer DIY.”

  “More like a gang?”

  “Yeah. Which made me think of Livia’s brother J.J., except based on his reaction to his sister’s death, no way. Which leaves us with half brother Deke, plus a few of his associates.”

  Charlie nods slowly. “Sounds about right.”

  “But doing what, Charlie? Fake drinking IDs can’t be that big money. Like you said, fake passports, identity packages, hell, work visas, that all makes sense. But how do you get from good-enough driver’s licenses to that level of expertise?”

  Charlie frowns, taps his coffee mug, frowns again. Viv rings from the kitchen. I head off to fetch Charlie’s burger, then get busy settling bills, refreshing drinks.

  By the time I return, Charlie has an idea. “You need an expert.”

  “Expert what?”

  “Forger. Someone who can walk you through the logistics. That’s how you catch a criminal, right? What do they need? What are the issues? That kind of thing. Think like a forger.”

  “I met with Livia’s AutoCAD teacher. He said the licenses would involve a computer and specialty printer, plus some expensive inks. Didn’t sound that complicated, or as if it would require tons of space.” I pause, consider. “Though definitely they have to be working out of somewhere. Maybe the same place the girls have been kept?” I have another thought. “Probably someplace local, as Angelique’s been spotted walking around Mattapan. Here’s the other thing: The girls had created a website for a college that doesn’t exist. And they’d gone into great detail. Photos of a campus, course offerings, a message from the president. The whole nine yards.”

  Charlie takes a bite of his burger, chews thoughtfully. “Why a fake college?”

  “That’s the question. From forged IDs to a fake college. I’m lost.”

  More chewing, swallowing. I spy a customer trying to grab my attention. I get back to work. Charlie is finishing off his burger by the time I return. I pour him more water.

  “There was this thing,” he starts. “Five, six years ago. Guy invented a company. Used it to issue work visas.”

  “You mean his company manufactured forged visas?”

  “Nah, his fake company produced paperwork that real people could use to apply for real visas. Guy got greedy, though. Soon enough, the powers that be got wise to a small firm needing hundreds of engineers. Especially when none of the foreigners applying for work had an engineering degree. Good while it lasted, though.”

  I lean closer. “So, not forged visas, which is nearly impossible, but creating supporting documents from a nonexistent entity to apply for real visas.” I remember what Emmanuel had said about his sister, her drive to take additional courses online so that she could graduate from high school early and get into college as soon as possible. Which would earn her a student visa and secure her place in this country.

  “Charlie, what about student visas? A fake college, to issue fake student visas?”

  “Could be.”

  “Wouldn’t someone notice? Aren’t there checks and balances for that kind of
thing?”

  Charlie shrugs. “Fake company eventually got shut down, but not before earning millions. System’s only as good as the time and energy the bureaucrats have to police it. If a cursory check shows that company or that college exists, who really has time to dig deeper? Not to mention, I hear rumors of kids entering with genuine J-1s from genuine schools. Once they’re in the country, however, who pays attention to where they go and what they do?”

  “But their visas expire.”

  “Which is an issue if they leave and reenter the country. But what if they stick around—say, with a new driver’s license?”

  I get goose bumps then. What would be worth more money than fake IDs? What would be worth kidnapping two enterprising teen girls and holding them hostage? How about setting up a system to generate real student visas? I can even see Angelique’s personal interest in taking on such a project, given her immigration status, and her brother’s. Maybe that had made it sound like a good idea . . . before it wasn’t.

  Had Livia involved Deke on her own, or had he approached her? I’m not sure it mattered. Deke, with his criminal partnerships, must’ve taken over the enterprise and run with it. Forcing his half sister and Angelique to work for them. Given the girls’ aptitudes in computer programming and design, this little enterprise could’ve gone on and on, growing in scope and size. From a fake college for student visas to a fake corporation for work visas, such as Charlie described. That revenue potential would be through the roof. Definitely worth the risk of holding two girls captive.

  Except Livia was now dead.

  Because having produced the templates, she wasn’t needed anymore? Or the stress of the situation had made her too unreliable? And what did her death mean for Angelique? Poor, problem-solving Angelique, desperately leaving us breadcrumbs, doing everything in her power to lead us to them.

  Then late last night, climbing into a van to help dispose of her friend’s body.

  Knowing none of her plans had been good enough.

  Knowing she would be next.

  “Thank you, Charlie.” I glance at my watch. Eight p.m. Way too early to be cutting out of work. But I don’t have a choice. There’s no way I can stand here, slinging drinks. Not with so much at stake. I need to move. I need to do. I hope Stoney will understand.

  I untie the apron from around my waist. Charlie stands up at the bar.

  “Where are you headed?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” Maybe the BPD field office to have it out with Lotham. Or . . . “I’m going to head to the rec center.”

  “This time of night?”

  “It all started there. And all roads keep leading back there. I can’t put my finger on it, but that’s the place to be.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  I don’t argue. A hulking bodyguard is not a bad idea at all. Which leaves me one last task. I bolt back to Stoney’s office, where he’s pecking away at his ancient computer.

  “Bye,” he says, without looking up.

  “I have a lead.”

  “Bye.”

  “I’ll be back, I’m so sorry.”

  Stoney finally glances at me. “Go,” he says.

  So I do, Charlie in tow. We’ve barely stepped outside the bar when my phone rings. It’s Emmanuel and the boy sounds hysterical.

  CHAPTER 35

  LiLi,” Emmanuel is gasping. “She just called. I heard screaming. She was screaming. ‘No, no, no.’ Then, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ But not to me, like she was talking to someone else. I think she had the phone tucked away, where they couldn’t see it. But then there was this huge boom. I didn’t understand. I started yelling her name. She came back, speaking right to me. She said, ‘I love you.’ Then the phone went dead. What is happening? Frankie, what is happening?”

  “Did you try calling back?”

  “I couldn’t. The number is blocked.”

  “What about the cell number you found on the receipt?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think it’s turned on.”

  “Okay, we’re headed toward you right now. Give me ten minutes, I’ll be there.”

  “Where is my sister!”

  “I’m working on it. I swear to you—”

  “You are lying! You don’t know anything. You’re lying!”

  “Emmanuel! Listen to me! Your sister needs you. The license number code. Think. Where are you with the license code?”

  “All I got was another string of numbers. Maybe a code within a code? I’m still working on it.”

  “Give me what you got, right now.”

  He starts rattling off numbers. I repeat each one out loud. Charlie reaches into his massive coat, pulls out a pen, and writes the string of numbers across the palm of his hand, as if we’d been working together for years.

  “Stay where you are,” I order Emmanuel. “Keep your phone on. If she calls again, do everything you can to keep the connection, okay? Maybe the police can trace it. I’ll call Detective Lotham, right now.”

  I hang up with Emmanuel, dial Lotham. Charlie doesn’t say a word, just keeps on trucking beside me as I strike a furious pace toward the Badeaus’ apartment.

  Lotham doesn’t answer till the fourth ring. “Not now—”

  “Emmanuel just called me. LiLi phoned him five minutes ago. Screaming for help, call disconnected, number’s blocked. He can’t call back.”

  “Shit.”

  “Charlie and I are headed there right now.”

  “No! I’m sending uniforms. Go home. Right now, Frankie. I mean it.”

  “Not to sound childish, but you are not the boss of me.”

  “Goddammit!” Deep breath. He’s clearly struggling for control, but I could give a flying fuck. This is my case, and I’m not backing off.

  “Frankie, I’m outside the Samdi residence. He’s dead.”

  I falter, miss a step, glancing up at Charlie. “Who’s dead?”

  “J.J. Samdi. Gunned down. Probably in the last thirty minutes.”

  “The website,” I whisper.

  “What the fuck, Frankie?”

  “That was the last project. The final piece of the puzzle. They needed the girls to finish the virtual college so they could graduate from fake IDs to fake documents for real student visas. Now that everything is in place and online, they’re cleaning up shop. Deke Alarie is cleaning up shop.”

  “Go home.”

  “Angelique’s family could be in danger as well.”

  “Which is why officers are on the way.”

  “Good, we’ll meet them there.”

  I disconnect the call, turn to Charlie, who’s clearly heard every word.

  “How do you feel about running?” I ask him.

  “Knees don’t love it, but given the circumstances . . .”

  We both take off down the sidewalk.

  * * *

  —

  We hit the final block where Emmanuel and his aunt live and I register two things at once. The sound of distant sirens. And the wailing of a nearby woman.

  “They took him,” Guerline screams the second she sees me. “They took Emmanuel!”

  “Who, where?”

  “Some man. I came downstairs to fetch Emmanuel. This white van pulled up in the middle of the street and a man jumped out. He had a gun. He pointed it at Emmanuel and told him to get in before anyone got hurt. I tried to grab Emmanuel’s arm. I tried to stop him. But then the man . . . He leapt up the steps and smashed Emmanuel over the head with his gun. My boy . . . He collapsed. And blood, so much blood. I started screaming at him to stop, but the man just looked at me. Then he put Emmanuel on his shoulder and threw him into the van.

  “As it drove away . . .” Her voice broke, dropped. “I heard a gunshot. I saw it . . . a flash through the side window. They shot Emmanuel. My baby. Oh my God, what have
they done?”

  I grab Guerline’s arm as she starts to collapse. “Did the man say anything?” I demand, doing my best to anchor both of us.

  “No.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Skinny. His hair was all these tiny braids tied back. And he was wearing gold chains.”

  “Deke Alarie.” I exhale.

  “Ma’am.” Charlie’s turn. “The van, which way did it go?”

  Guerline points down the block. I can hear the police sirens, finally drawing closer.

  “Emmanuel’s cell phone, did he have it on him?”

  “He dropped it. When the man hit him.”

  “Damn.” Because the phone would’ve given us a way to track him. Which no doubt Deke also knew. “Mrs. Violette, can I enter your apartment? Emmanuel was working on decoding a cipher we believe Angelique may have left for us. I need his notes.”

  Guerline appears too shocked to answer. I leave her with Charlie’s comforting bulk while I pound upstairs and burst into the apartment. There, the open laptop on the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paper. I don’t bother to look. Laptop, loose papers, I grab it all, shoving it into a rough pile. I spot a dark blue backpack propped on the floor against the wall. Probably also Emmanuel’s. I dump everything inside, slinging the pack over my shoulder.

  A squeal of tires outside, two patrol cars screeching to a halt. I hear Guerline wind up again, along with Charlie’s soothing undertones. Then Officer O’Shaughnessy’s unmistakable voice, demanding to know what’s happened.

  I exit the apartment, pausing on the second-floor landing. If I go downstairs right now, Officer O’Shaughnessy is going to demand my version of events as well. He may also recognize Emmanuel’s backpack and force me to hand it over.

  Time. I feel it. The drumbeat that’s been chasing me since early this morning. Right now right now right now. Everything is happening right now.