Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 8

Returning to Stoney’s dim interior feels like a balm after spending half the day out in the big city. I draw in a lungful of grease, salt, and hops, as I tie a white apron around my waist and prepare for battle. I know this bar’s fragrance as well as I know the feel of the beer taps and a sound of a bell: Order up! I like Stoney’s. Not just because it’s a no-frills joint where you get what you get but because it’s the local watering hole.

I’ve worked in dozens of bars across dozens of cities. I could make much more in some upmarket, aspirational place. But I remain partial to the kind of pub that feels like home.

When I check in, I find Stoney tucked inside a tiny office next to the kitchen. He looks me up and down, maybe checking for Piper damage. “Got three menu items,” he says, ticking off on his fingers: “Cheeseburger and fries ten dollars, chicken wings and fries ten dollars. Only fries, five dollars.”

He turns back to his archaic desktop. At least that explains the lack of menu.

I linger for a second, in case he wants to walk me through setup, maybe review some custom drinks. Nope, nothing. Apparently three minutes of instruction is all it takes to run this joint. Fair enough.

I unstack the chairs from the tables. Wipe every available surface. Napkin holders, check. Salt and pepper shakers. Cheap promotional coasters.

Then it’s time to check keg lines and clear the soda gun. Followed by drying and stacking glasses, filling bowls of spicy peanuts, slicing up lemons and limes.

I like the work. Quick and mindless. It allows my attention to wander.

Emmanuel Badeau and his look of suspicion. Detective Lotham and his look of hostility. Angelique’s friend Marjolie and her look of fear.

I don’t know my own expression at this stage of my investigation. Confusion? Intrigue?

Most of my work has been in remote areas where there’s been a lack of resources or small-minded police departments stocked with good old boys who don’t want to waste their time. Or, say, tribal police who really believe outsiders need not apply. As a city, Boston is definitely not that, and yet some of the same defensiveness applies.

Did I once feel the sting of barbed comments? Or fear being shut out, told I was wrong or stupid? Did I feel guilty for ruffling so many feathers? If I did, it was a long time ago.

Before I was stopped on an open road in the middle of the desert, the blacktop wavy with heat, as a county sheriff and his three deputies climbed out of their cruisers, smacking their batons in cadence with their approach.

Before the crack of a rifle shattered the rear window of my rental car and I skidded sideways into a bank of heavy trees, more windows imploding, airbag deploying, my nose breaking.

Before a screaming uncle pulled me from his sister’s front porch, punching me and crying that it was all my fault, then falling to his knees and simply crying because his six-year-old niece was never coming home and maybe he shouldn’t have drunk himself into oblivion the night he was babysitting.

Memories sear. I have so many of them now. They’re not precious moments, but burning-hot coals I keep picking up and turning over in my mind. They hurt. I study them harder. They burn deeper. I come back for more.

Paul accused me of remaining an addict even after I stopped drinking. I don’t think he understood that’s exactly how it works. I am my demons, and my demons are me. Some days I do all the talking and some days my monster does all the drinking, but every day it’s all me.

Viv arrives with a hum and a wave, as the first few customers walk in. I receive wary glances from most of my customers. I am, for the moment at least, the only white person in the room. But I keep the alcohol coming and as hour speeds into busier hour, with me smoothly drawing down draft beers, pouring out shots, tossing in limes, everyone settles. I deliver food slips to Viv, pick up waiting plates for tables. Stoney and I fall into an easy shorthand of numbered fingers as he splits his time between back kitchen and front counter.

We pass quickly from an easy happy hour to a hopping dinner rush to the late-hour locals who have nowhere else to be at ten o’clock on a work night. I zip back a tray of dirty glasses, placing them in the bottom of the vast stainless-steel sink and topping them with steaming-hot water.

Then I’m back to the bar, looking for the next drink order.

Detective Lotham takes a seat in front of me. No gray suit, but jeans and a navy blue sweater that stretches across his broad chest. Off duty, then.

He regards me. Friend or foe? He’s still debating the matter. Which means time for more fun.

“What can I get ya? Wait, let me guess: bourbon, neat.”

His brow furrows. “Good God, no.”

“Corona?” Though he didn’t seem the type.

“RumChata.”

“Seriously?”

“Around here, real men drink rum.”

I shake my head, reach up for the simple white bottle. I’d never even heard of the liqueur till this evening. Now, I’d received multiple orders for it. It reminds me of a Caribbean version of Baileys except it’s lighter in color and smells like rice pudding topped with cinnamon. I’d asked Viv about it during one of my kitchen excursions. She’d muttered darkly about Crémas, Christmastime, and I’d better demand a raise by then.

Now I get out a half glass, scoop in ice, douse it in white boozy sweetness, then push it toward the detective.

“One girly drink for the big guy. I’ll be back.” I head to the other end of the bar, topping off water for one customer, pouring fresh beers for three more. I keep my movements easy, my face bright, and pretend I don’t feel Detective Lotham’s stare burning a hole in my back.

A wave from the corner booth. I walk around to take an order for three burgers from a trio of elderly gentlemen who seem to be having a very good time. The one closest to me gestures me closer. “You the new girl Viv was talking about?” He has gray whiskers, sparkling brown eyes, and a mischievous smile. I’m willing to bet he was hell on wheels back in the day. And that day might’ve been yesterday.

“I’m the new girl,” I confirm.

“Mmm-hmm. I tell you what, girlie. That Viv give you any trouble, you come find me. I’ll set her straight.”

“Viv? You’re offering to protect me from Viv?”

“That’s right. She can be uppity. Bossy, too. And I should know; I’m her big brother.”

“That so?”

“Albert.”

“Nice to meet ya, Albert. But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to be blunt: We both know that you’re no match for Viv. Thanks for the offer, though.”

The man’s friends chortle across the table. My customer’s grin broadens. Whatever the test, apparently I passed it. A parting wink, then I deliver the order slip to Viv, informing her that she has a table of admirers, including older brother Al. She merely rolls her eyes and drops down another bucket of fries. I escape before the greasy steam coats my skin.

Back at the bar, I notice Lotham’s drink has been barely touched. Apparently, he’s planning on staying for a while. With the bar pared down to the night owls, there’s nothing that demands my immediate attention. I plop my elbows on the counter across from the Boston cop.

“So . . . of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world?”

He smiles briefly. “I had some time on my hands, wanted a drink.”

“Really? Because I think you’re still rankled that the new girl is sniffing around your turf.”

“You didn’t leave the school after our conversation.”

“Never said I was gonna.”

“You talked to students. Kyra and Marjolie.”

“I liked their yellow ribbons.”

Detective Lotham takes a sip of his RumChata. When he sets it down and exhales, his breath smells like cinnamon.

He has dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and battered features. His nose has definitely been broken, probably a couple of times, and he’s missing a piece of his ear, as if someone took a bite out of it. There’s a story there, no doubt. I like that about his face. That it’s a road map of been there, done that. It’s interesting.

In my drinking days, I devoted my share of nights to drunken hookups. Even back then, it wasn’t about the sex for me, which was generally a clumsy and forgettable affair. I liked the quiet right after. When neither of us were speaking. Just the sound of chests heaving, heartbeats slowing. That short, fleeting moment that occurs right before regret. When you can smell the sweat on your body, now mixing with someone else’s, and wonder again how you can remain so disconnected. Like it wasn’t your arms, wasn’t your legs, was never your body to begin with.

I wouldn’t invite a man like Detective Lotham up to my room for sex. But even now, I wouldn’t mind tracing the line of his chewed-up ear, his weathered jawline.

I stand, putting distance between us, then pour myself a glass of water and down it.

“I called the names you gave O’Shaughnessy,” Lotham offers up casually.

“And?”

“Wouldn’t say they sang your praises, but it does sound like you’re legit. I mean, as legit as an inexperienced, untrained civilian can be.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“No seeking of financial reward, or attention from the press.”

I shudder automatically. “I don’t care for the press.”

Lotham nods before he can stop himself, then scowls, as if I tricked him in to having something in common with me.

“Are you a good detective?” I ask Lotham.

He doesn’t take the bait.

“I think you are. You and the BPD have all the bells and whistles you could ask for. Not to mention access to way more information than I can get. For example, I had to interview Marjolie and Kyra to learn if Angelique had a boyfriend. While you probably know every detail from dumping Angelique’s phone, searching her laptop, surfing her social media. And yet you still stopped by tonight to learn what her two friends told me. Interesting.”

I push away. Drift down the bar to take a new drink order, settle a bill.

When I return, Detective Lotham has sipped infinitesimally more of his drink. This time, he doesn’t bother with pretenses.

“What did Marjolie and Kyra have to say?”

“I’ll show you mine, you show me yours?”

One arched bushy brow.

“Let’s both pretend that means yes.” I plant my elbows on the countertop. “Something changed in Angelique’s life the summer before she disappeared. She returned to school more . . . self-possessed, distant, distracted. Kyra thinks a boy, and serious enough to be sexual. Marjolie disagrees, but mostly because it hurts her feelings to think her bestie kept such a secret.”

“How long did you talk to them?”

“Five, eight minutes before lunch break was over.”

“And they told you about their friend’s sex life?”

“Think of it as girl talk. See, a civilian investigator isn’t so bad.”

Lotham takes a pointed slurp of his drink.

My turn: “I’m sure you have copies of Angelique’s text messages, but what about Snapchat? That’s what most teens use for communicating away from prying parental eyes. I imagine they think it’s covert, disappearing messages and all that. But is it? Can you recover a message that vanishes the moment it’s read?”

“The police can get Snapchat info.”

“How?”

“The messages pass through the closest server, the server captures the data.”

“But how do you know which servers to access when people use their phones walking all over the place?”

“It’s never a bad idea to start with the areas closest to home, school, and work. Won’t get everything, but will get enough.”

“What about messages sent in an app? You know, utilizing Instagram or some of the specialized messaging apps?”

“That’s what search warrants are for.”

I nod. Makes sense. For every new medium of communication comes a new way to capture that form of communication. “All right. Let’s say it’s been, I don’t know, eleven months since an investigation first started. By now you have your search warrant results, server data, cell phone dump.”

“Unless it involves something being unlocked by Apple. In which case we’re still in court.”

I smile. “Man, you’re a pain in the ass. Tell me, did all this new information scored by the search warrants and recovered from miscellaneous servers confirm your initial theory of the case, or alter it completely?” I look him in the eye. “Do you still think Angelique was changing clothes Friday night to meet a mystery lover?”

Lotham’s turn to smile. He sips his drink.

He’s not going to answer that question and we both know it. It’s okay. Whether he intended or not, he’s done me a favor, as just knowing what information is out there is half the battle. Some of the reports received by the police I can request copies of through the Freedom of Information Act, things like that. In this case, that probably won’t work. But I can also ask Angelique’s aunt Guerline if she’d be willing to ask for copies. Most families have no idea what the police have been doing behind the scenes and are frustrated about being left in the dark. Meaning my suggestion that they ask for a specific document almost always leads to instant results, and yet more cops who hate me.

“You’re thinking boyfriend,” I say now. “I can tell by the look on your face that what Kyra and Marjolie told me wasn’t news. You probably already read the messages, buzzed through the photos. Good lord, the hour after hour of teen drama you must’ve had to wade through. Kids keep everything on their phone.”

I pause for dramatic effect. “Except not Angelique. That phone in her bag wasn’t her real cell. She’s got a backup, probably a cheap burner. Where her real life happens, which is why she was comfortable leaving her parentally approved model behind.”

In front of me, Lotham thins his lips, flares his nostrils. I’ve been working on the thought all afternoon. Judging by Lotham’s expression, I’m right. But where does that leave us?

I have a second thought. Sadder, more sobering. Why Detective Lotham is really here. Because he gets it, too, that nearly a year later he’s no closer to the truth. And he’s troubled by that—both by what he’s seen and by what he can’t see. He doesn’t want me getting involved, no detective wants that. But at the same time . . . What if my blundering jars something loose?

Detective Lotham doesn’t approve of me. But he’s also desperate. And like any good detective, he knows he doesn’t have to like me to use me as a resource.

I push away from the bar again, nodding at the customer trying to get my attention. While I’m up and at it, I deliver Viv’s burgers to the flirty trio, noticing all three burgers are topped with her special sauce—family connections paying off. I wipe down two recently vacated tables. Scrubbing the surface with my fraying dishtowel gives me more time to think.

It’s after eleven now. Only half a dozen customers and forty-five minutes left till closing. I return to the bar and my position across from Lotham.

“Officer O’Shaughnessy was warning me about the gang activity in this area, dozens of them willing to kill over a single block of real estate. I did some reading of my own, you know, before I waded inexperienced and untrained into the lions’ den. There was a local case a few years back. A gang needed to lure out a rival in order to kill him. But their faces, their girlfriends, were too well known. So they recruited a new girl with no history of gang activity—had one of the females befriend her. Couple of months later, at her new friend’s request, that girl invites the rival to meet her at the park for a date. He shows up . . . Further statistics ensue.”

I tilt my head at Lotham. “Angelique would be a good target for that kind of scheme. Shy, quiet girl, also innocent and pretty. Maybe she was befriended, maybe threatened, but for whatever reason, she ended up in a situation beyond her control.”

“I remember that case.” Lotham nods. “There was a retaliatory shooting shortly thereafter. Killed three more.”

“But if that’s what it was,” I contemplate, once again leaning in close, “why didn’t she come home when it was over? Unless something worse happened? A shooting followed by a retaliatory shooting, like you mentioned? But in that case, you’d have a bunch of cops deployed to those scenes, and one of them should’ve seen or heard about Angelique.”

“True. Plus, there’s another problem with that scenario.”

“Do tell.”

“Gangbangers don’t fly.”

It takes me a second, then I get it. If Angelique were meeting up with new friends, and/or gangsters, there should still be some image caught on video. Maybe cameras missed the blip of a moment when Angelique appeared here, or crossed there. But for her to head deeper into the hood, traversing neighborhoods and parks, whether by foot, subway, or car . . . No way some camera somewhere didn’t capture her image. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Detective Lotham hadn’t personally viewed all possible video feeds dozens of times. I’ve done it myself, poring over maps again and again.

It’s how I found Lani Whitehorse, because in the end the lake was the only place she could’ve gone, regardless of the tribal police saying there were no tire marks in the mud, or flattened bushes along the shore to indicate an accident and justify the cost of a water search. I don’t know why that was, or how an ancient Chevy went from a hairpin turn to thirty yards out into a lake without leaving any trace behind. Maybe not all things are meant to be understood.

Of course, in Angelique’s case there remains one other terrible, awful scenario.

“Sex trafficking,” I murmur now. “Innocent girls are often lured into the life. Angelique fits the description as that kind of target as well. Meaning maybe she thought she was going on a date with the new man in her life, except . . .” I shrug. “She never got to come home.”

Lotham doesn’t answer right away. He spins his drink, watching the white liqueur coat the chips of ice. “Boston has a human trafficking unit. They can reach out to CIs, run facial rec against all the local sex services sites, partner with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Prostitution is no longer a street game. It’s gone digital just like everything else. Customers log in, peruse the ‘menu,’ place the order. Sick to be sure, but it does allow us to cover a lot more ground using cyber tech. Let’s just say the human trafficking unit has nothing new to report.”

Stoney appears at the end of the bar, clad in his usual worn jeans and blue chambray shirt. He looks at his watch. Two minutes to midnight by my count, but apparently close enough for him, as he raps the bar three times hard with his fist.

Last call. Customers toss back drinks, rise to standing, cash out accounts. One by one. Till only Detective Lotham remains. Stoney gives him a look, seems to decide he’s nothing to fear, then retreats to the kitchen.

I yawn. “Gonna help me clean?” I ask, starting to stack up dirty glasses.

“I’m trying to figure you out.”

“If only someone could.”

“You really don’t work for money.”

“And give up this kind of reckless abandon?”

“You literally go from place to place, case to case, no time off, no life, no loved ones in between? Like what, some kind of modern-day gunslinger?”

“Yes, there are that many open missing persons cases out there. I could travel from town to town, investigation to investigation for the rest of my life, and still not make a dent in the number.”

“Why?” Lotham downs the last of his drink. He stands up from the stool, then makes his way around the bar till he’s standing right in front of me. His eyes aren’t so flat now. They’re dark and deep and endless. He really does want to know. If only I had the answer.

“I think Kyra and Marjolie were right,” I murmur. “If Angelique had met a boy, she would’ve told them. Maybe not her aunt and her brother, but her two best friends? They would’ve known. But most likely, she had met someone. And what kind of someone would a teenage girl hesitate to introduce immediately to her inner circle?”

“An older man?”

“Or a new female friend. Someone who might be good for Angelique but threatening to her posse. Teenage girls don’t always take that kind of change well.”

Lotham’s studying me intently, still trying to turn me inside out so he can understand all the gearings. See exactly what makes me tick.

I wish it were really that simple. But he remains frustrated and I remain my same old self, thoughts whirling, skin humming, anxiety flying.

He steps back. Away. Heads for the door.

I follow him, preparing to lock up behind. Beyond the bar, the street is cast in pools of light and shadow. The air is colder, the pedestrian traffic scant with roamers keeping their heads down and feet fast.

“I’m gonna focus on potential new friends in Angelique’s world, as well as her missing burner phone,” I tell Lotham as he steps into the night.

“Can’t buy a prepaid cell in Mass under the age of eighteen.”

“Never stopped a teenager before.”

He shakes his head, clearly annoyed by my persistence, but not surprised. “Be careful out there. Bad things can happen, even in daylight.”

“It’s cute you think I’m waiting for daylight.”

I shut the door, firing the bolt home while Lotham is still whipping around in shock. A final wave, then I head back to the bar to finish cleaning up, before starting my next adventure.