Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 14

The happy hour crowd is firmly entrenched by the time I return to Stoney’s pub. I grab an apron, wash my hands, and get straight to work banging out beer and running plates of food.

My mind keeps returning to the rolls of cash hidden in Angelique’s lamp. When I left, Detective Lotham was bagging the evidence. The fact that Guerline and Emmanuel weren’t protesting his removal of large sums of money from their humble apartment confirmed that the money wasn’t theirs and the implications troubling.

Not being an official investigator type, I can only guess what kind of forensic tests will be conducted on the cash. Fingerprinting, for sure. My understanding is that new bills can often yield useful prints. Anything in circulation too long, however, has been touched by too many greasy hands, leaving behind a mess of smudged partials.

They’d test each bill for chemical residue. Traces of drugs. Maybe some cool random mold that could only be found in one basement in all of Boston. Or not.

I’d read about a case where the serial numbers on the bills were traced to a particular ATM, which allowed the police to pull video and identify the person who withdrew the funds. That would be great. Given how tightly bound the money was, however, I don’t have an impression of crispness, consecutive serial numbers, or, really, any useful information.

It looked like rolls of hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars per bundle. Making the total stash worth tens of thousands. What in the world could a teenage girl be doing to earn that kind of money?

Prostitution is the first thought that comes to mind. And would fit with an overall story line of human trafficking. But I certainly hadn’t seen any sign of sexy clothes or paraphernalia. Let alone, when? Angelique shared her sleeping quarters with her brother. If she was sneaking out, surely he’d be sharing those details by now. Not to mention tens of thousands is a lot of money for that scenario. No pimp wants the hired help to achieve financial independence.

“Umm, lady, you gonna keep pouring that beer?”

A voice jolts me from my reverie. Sure enough, I’ve topped off the glass and am now gushing foam down the sides. I flush, knock off the tap, deliver the beverage.

When I return, Stoney looks like he’s wondering if no help might be better than mine. Fair enough.

“Illegal income,” I tell him. “What are the local options?”

He appears to take my inquiry seriously as he stacks dirty glasses on a tray for delivery to the kitchen. “Drugs.”

“No sign of product, plus narc dogs would’ve sniffed out the cash if it had been in contact with meth, dope, whatever.” I line up four half glasses, toss in ice, start doling out rum.

Stoney doesn’t question this statement. “Sex.”

“Possible but not probable.”

“Stolen goods.”

Hadn’t thought of that. I top the rum with Coke, then swing back around the bar to deliver the drinks to the waiting table. When I return, Stoney has finished with the dirty glasses and is now ringing up an order for a waiting patron.

“What kind of stolen goods?” I ask him.

“Electronics. Cell phones. Guns.”

“Not sure our girl has that skill set or resources. She’s the studious type. Wants to be a doctor when she grows up.” Viv appears from the kitchen, one of her rare appearances, and hands me three plates. I shoot them to the end of the bar, picking up an order for a pitcher of beer on my way back.

“Sell off a kidney?” Stoney asks next.

“Think the family would’ve noticed.” I go to work filling the pitcher. I could ask about any recent surgeries. Maybe Angelique had suffered appendicitis that wasn’t really appendicitis? Or had tonsils that weren’t really her tonsils removed? Seems far-fetched, however, that she could pull off such a ruse in such tight quarters.

“Credit card fraud,” Stoney supplies next. “Or identity theft.”

Worthy of consideration. We know Angelique had a fake ID, why not a credit card in someone else’s name? She could charge items online, have them delivered to her home, then return them to local stores for cash or credit. Seems like the kind of activity, however, that would’ve drawn attention and been shared with the cops by now. Unless she used someone else’s house for delivery? A co-conspirator? The other half of us? Interesting.

Of all the options, white-collar crime sounds like the best fit with the picture of the Angelique I’m building in my mind. Then again, my image is based on information from her family and friends. And clearly, they don’t know everything about her.

Angelique went to high school by day, and took online courses by night. A lot of school, actual and virtual, for a teenager. Could that be a hint? Illegal activity disguised as schoolwork? Maybe she sold exam answers and/or term papers? But tens of thousands of dollars’ worth? Are there even enough kids in high school or at GEDNow.com to supply that kind of income?

I keep turning it over in my mind but still can’t come up with a venture, illegal or otherwise, that can account for Angelique’s level of cash.

What if she found the money? Or stole it? Maybe she wasn’t a dope dealer, but say she babysat for a drug kingpin, discovered a stash of cash, and thought she could get away with helping herself. Until the dealer found out and . . .

Now I have too many possibilities to consider, though most of them result in Angelique being shot as a message to others, versus being kidnapped for eleven months. Drug dealers are not the subtle sort.

I dole out shots, top off drinks. I operate on muscle memory, a woman who’s spent the majority of her adult life in bars, while my mind whirrs and chugs and ponders.

None of it brings me peace.

Help us, Angelique had encoded into her school essay. A girl clearly in trouble and desperate enough to take a shot at reaching out. I agreed with what Detective Lotham had said—just because someone hadn’t walked into the cybercafé with a gun pointed at Angelique’s head didn’t mean she wasn’t under duress.

Then another possibility came to me, scarier and sadder than all the others. She could’ve been kidnapped to serve as recruitment bait. A quiet, pretty immigrant teen. Held against her will, then sent out to bus stops and train stations to meet other unsuspecting teens and lure them over to meet her “friends”: sex traffickers, pimps, dope dealers. How much would that erode a natural caretaker such as Angelique, a girl who’d rescued her own mother and brother?

If the threat against her family either here or in Haiti was significant enough, she wouldn’t have a choice but to obey.

This scenario wouldn’t account for why Angelique had rolls of bills stashed in a lamp, but it would explain her disappearance, as well as her sudden reappearance seeking help.

As for how she might have gotten involved in sex trafficking, all I can think of is the rec center. According to her friends, she’d become distant after attending the summer program there. Because she’d met someone? Seen something? I have no idea, but it seems as good a starting place as any. First thing tomorrow, I’ll find my new friend Charlie and head on over. Like Angelique, I do best with a plan.

Which makes me wonder where Angelique is right now. Terrified or determined? Longing for her brother, or resigned to her fate?

And the mysterious us? Another girl? Several girls? Dozens of girls? All waiting for someone to rescue them from the dark?

The implications of that, the responsibility for all those lives, when I’ve never even rescued one living soul . . .

I can’t think about it.

Angelique. Others. Out there alone.

Please, please, please, for their sakes, let me get this right.

By the time the night owls have been shown to the door, my mood is subdued. I scrub and polish, stack and sweep in silence. Viv is in the kitchen, scouring down, while Stoney closes out the register.

It’s been a long day. I should head to a meeting, then get some sleep. Or maybe I could go for a run. It’s late and dark and dangerous, but that’s never stopped me before. Sometimes my blood flows too close to my skin. I can feel my own nerve endings spark and snap, the pressure building in my chest.

Once upon a time, I would head to a bar, slamming back shots of tequila and dancing with abandon. Dance drink dance. Or maybe it had been drink dance drink. Oblivion. That’s what I sought, what I still seek.

One precious moment when I’m no longer trapped inside my own head. Knowing things I don’t want to know. Remembering things I don’t want to remember. Worrying about things I can’t change.

As I do too often, I think of Paul. The feel of his lips whispering down my neck. The tickle of his hair, the strength of his hands. The beginning, when he made me feel safe. The end, when I broke his heart and shattered the last of my self-respect.

I don’t want to go to a meeting. I don’t want to run. I want to grab a bottle of Hornitos, crawl upstairs, and dial his phone number. The pain will be swift and brutal. Like a razor to the soul. Then I can lie there and feel myself bleed, while guzzling tequila. Drink and wallow. Maybe Piper the homicidal cat likes pity parties, too. You never know.

Viv comes charging out, already thrusting her arms into her coat. Her husband is waiting just outside the door to walk her home. It’s sweet and charming and salt on my gaping wound. Addicts are particularly good at this game. Everyone else’s life is easier, better, happier. If we could be those people, then we wouldn’t need to drink again.

It’s everyone else’s fault. The universe’s. Never our own.

Go to a meeting. Just walk out the front door and go. I eye the rows of bottles that line the back wall. I feel the beast stir to life in my belly, opening its eyes, stretching out its claws.

It’s been a hard day. And I’m tired and alone. And white. Dear God, when did I become this impossibly glow-in-the-dark neon white, so that everyone stares at me and no one knows me? My skin color has made me the enemy, a walking advertisement for entitlement and privilege except I don’t feel like any of those things. I feel like I’ve always felt. Broken. As if the whole rest of the world knows something I don’t. Feels things I can’t. Connects in ways I’ve never learned how.

Of course, I’ve spent enough time by now in marginalized communities to understand there’s more to that story. That for all my internal angst, the truth is I grew up with limited fears and unlimited dreams. I had implicit faith in authority and never thought to question the system. I had an innate understanding of the world and my place in it. Let alone a roof over my head, food in the fridge, and a safe neighborhood to grow up in.

Which is a privilege indeed.

I should go to a meeting. Just walk out the front door, find my people, and set down my burden. Breathe.

The restless dragon, fully awake now, uncoils. It whispers memories of my very first drink, a sip of my father’s Jack and Coke fetched by my eight-year-old self for my already slurring parent. The feel of caffeine and bourbon sliding down my throat, both hot and cold, melting and jolting. The slow-spreading euphoria that brought a flush to my impossibly young face.

Not a bottle. Just a shot. Or two or three. Then I’ll sleep. Sleep is good. I’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.

“Sit.” Stoney stands in front of me. He grips the chair I just stacked on the table, flips it back down, points at the hard wooden seat. “Sit.”

I do.

A second chair, slapped down next to the first. Then a pause, as he disappears and I close my eyes, count to a hundred by fives, then when that doesn’t work, by sevens. I’d just hit eighty-four when Stoney reappears with two mugs of coffee.

“Decaf.” He keeps one, hands over the other. He takes up position across from me. We both sip our coffee in silence.

“You married?” I ask him at last. The pressure is easing in my chest, but I grip my coffee mug hard, like an anchor. Another trick. Rattle off five things you can see right now in as much visual detail as possible. “I spy with my little eye” as a grounding exercise. If that doesn’t work, then five things for five senses. The smell of freshly brewed coffee. The sound of the buzzing overhead lights. The feel of the warm mug. The look on Stoney’s impassive face. The taste of regret.

Stoney takes his time answering. “Was. She died. Ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Had thirty amazing years. Appreciated every minute. Makes me luckier than most.”

“Kids?”

“Three. Two girls and a boy. One of my girls lives in Florida now. Keeps asking me to join her and her family. But this is my home.”

“You grow up here?”

“New Jersey. But moved here when I was in my teens. Close enough.”

“This neighborhood, this bar, these are your memories.”

“I see my Camille everywhere,” Stoney affirms. “And I’m not complaining.”

“Grandkids?”

“Four. Ages three to eight. Two in Florida, two in New York.”

“All three of your kids are married?”

“My two girls. Jerome, my son, died at sixteen. Not easy to be a young Black man. Harder still, when you’re sixteen, stupid, and susceptible to your peers.”

As usual with Stoney, it’s what he doesn’t say that matters most. “Gangs or drugs?” I ask at last.

“Drugs. Broke his mother’s heart.” His father’s, too, but that went without saying.

“Gonna die in this bar?” I ask him.

“That’s the plan.”

“What’s it like?” I whisper. “To know exactly what you want? To know this is your home? To feel like you belong?”

Stoney doesn’t answer, but then, I don’t expect him to.

“You know the family?” His turn to question. “The missing girl, Badeau?”

“No. This is what I do. I look up cold cases involving missing persons. Then I find them.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen.”

“How long?”

“Nine years. More or less.”

“How’d you get started?”

“Fluke thing. I had just joined AA. One of the women was struggling with the disappearance of her daughter. The police thought she’d run away. Margaret didn’t believe, but couldn’t argue. I asked a few questions, which led to a few more, then a few more. Addicts are prone to obsession. I ended up tracking the daughter to a flophouse where she was holed up with her abusive boyfriend. The girl was underage, so I called the cops. They closed in for the arrest, but not before the boyfriend shot her, then himself. Classic murder-suicide.”

“Not a happy story.”

“No, but maybe that’s why I keep coming back for more. I don’t trust happy. These cases, these situations, I understand.”

Stoney nods, sips more coffee.

“Thank you,” I say at last.

No comment.

“You know your cat is crazy, right? And/or a serial killer?”

No comment.

“But she does have a nice purr,” I allow.

Stoney smiles. We both drain our mugs. Then, together, we restack the chairs, wash out our cups, rinse the coffeepot.

Stoney goes home. And, no bottle in hand, I head upstairs.

In my dreams, Angelique appears. She is running down a long, dark alley that gets longer and darker with every step. She is a blur of frantically pounding limbs, dark hair bouncing beneath a bright red ball cap.

“Help me,” she screams, disappearing around a corner. Except when I get there, she’s already flying around the next sharp turn. So I run left, then right, zigging and zagging, zagging and zigging but never gaining any ground. I can just hear the echo of her footsteps, the sound of her breathing as she races ahead.

“Help me help me help me.”

Abruptly, the dark alley is gone and I’m standing at the grassy edge of a road, peering at the crumpled remains of my parents’ car, their bloody faces slammed wide-eyed into the crackled windshield.

No, I’m underwater, fighting to get away from Lani Whitehorse’s skeletal grasp, as she pulls me down, down, down.

I try to pinch my skin. I try to scream at myself to wake up, but it doesn’t work. I remain trapped in a nightmarish slideshow, where the scenes go from bad to awful to terrifying to . . .

Paul. His head on my lap, his body bathed in blood.

“What did you do, Frankie?” he screams at me, his fingers reaching out like talons. “Dear God, what did you do?”

Shh, I want to tell him. Save your strength.

But it’s too late. A kid is screaming, a gun is booming. No place to go, nothing we can do. I reach for his hand.

“What did you do?” he asks me one last time as the life drains out of him. So much blood. Too much. And yet still he grips my hand. Still he looks to me.

“I loved you.”

Then I close my eyes, as light explodes around us, brilliant, excruciating, searing. I scream. In my dream. In my sleep.

I pray the pain will be quick.

Now, as then, it isn’t.