Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 16

I’ve barely left the rec center property, heading back down the main boulevard with a vague notion of finding my bus stop, when a white car goes roaring past me in the opposite lane. It slams on its brakes, performs a hard U-turn, and zips up beside me.

“Get in,” Detective Lotham orders.

I stare at him for a moment, not trying to be belligerent, but definitely disoriented.

“I know you like to walk,” he growls.

“Actually, I was headed for the bus.”

“Stop being so damn contrarian and get the hell in.”

The moment he calls me contrarian I naturally want to protest. But the urgency in his voice, underlaid with anger, and maybe even a hint of fear, catches my attention. I get in. I’ve no sooner shut the door than he floors the gas. The sudden acceleration slams me back against my seat and I scramble for a seat belt.

“What do you know about counterfeiting?” he asks me, both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. He’s leaning forward, as if throwing his whole body into his aggressive driving.

“As in money?”

“U.S. currency to be exact.”

“I thought that was very hard to do.”

“Exactly. Meaning it’s not a small-time DIY enterprise. The good fakes generally come from overseas. Europe, Russia. You need the right equipment and a master tradesperson to pull it off. Computers have simplified the process some—the good forgers scan hundreds of images of, say, a Ben Franklin, then create a 3D master plate based off the composite image. Provides the bills with the same printing imperfections the U.S. Treasury installed on purpose. Still, there are watermarks and special paper and reflective dyes. Not something for the average criminal to execute.”

I nod, then start to connect the dots, why Detective Lotham is suddenly an expert on forgery. “The bills from Angelique’s lamp,” I murmur out loud. Of all the findings from the hidden cash, this is not one I’d expected.

“A tenth of them are counterfeit. Almost exactly. Which, according to the Secret Service agent who showed up in my office this morning, is how it’s usually done.”

“They mix in fake money with real money so it’s less noticeable?”

We’ve come to a red light. Lotham hits a switch on his dash, issuing a shrill whoop, whoop, and we scream on through. I grab hold of the oh-shit handle, still not knowing where we are going with such urgency.

“Angelique’s stash isn’t as large as it appears. We’re talking rolls of twenties, wrapped in hundreds.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a popular trick among the streetwise to appear richer than they are.”

“Give me a total.”

“Stashed in that lamp was about twelve thousand dollars.”

“Still an impressive haul.”

“Yep. But the outer layer, the Ben Franklins—”

“Those were counterfeit?”

“Exactly. To make matters more interesting, these particular counterfeits have been in circulation for years, apparently. They’re called the Russian notes, because the U.S. Secret Service believes they were first printed there. Using an offset printer, probably in a giant warehouse with specialized dyes, acids. Again, not a local job.”

I nod, though more to register I’ve heard the words than I understand them. We hit another intersection, and with a fresh whoop, whoop, we slice through two lanes of traffic before instigating a hard left across oncoming traffic. My stomach tightens. A fresh boost of speed, then we clear imminent death and sail down a narrow side street.

“Are the counterfeiters actually chasing us?” I ask Detective Lotham. “Or is this your competitive streak now that a federal agency is involved?”

“Forget Secret Service. They already have the bills and—based on the serial numbers—they already know the source. For them, this is mop-up from a decades-old operation. Some Russian syndicate executed tens of millions of near-perfect fakes. They sold them for ten cents on the dollar to a distributor who sold them for twenty-five cents on the dollar to various middlemen in various countries who finished the food chain by selling them locally for sixty cents on the dollar. According to Agent Ford, they’ll be recovering the fake Benjamins for the rest of his life and from all over the world.”

“So how did Angelique end up with them?”

“That remains our problem. How, who, why? According to Agent Ford, any one of us might be carrying a counterfeit without knowing it. But a dozen of them? Each wrapped around a bundle of real twenty-dollar bills? That’s not random. We certainly have Russian gangs in Boston, which might explain how we ended up with these fakes in this area. But not too many Russian crime bosses are hanging out with Mattapan gangbangers. Criminal enterprises are notoriously snobbish, and our local gangs aren’t sophisticated enough for Russian interest.”

I have no idea what to say to this. It’s okay. In the way Boston works, a random street has appeared ahead, forking a right diagonal, not to be confused with the three other diagonals flaring out around it. Lotham hits that turn as hard as he hit the others. Apparently, he’s in a temper this morning.

“Did you sleep last night?” I ask him.

“Does at a desk count? Minute I logged those bills into evidence, my phone started ringing off the hook. And then my sergeant called me into his office . . .”

“So it’s your sergeant we’re running away from?”

“Don’t be a wise-ass.”

“I’m more worried about becoming a soon-to-be-dead dumbass. Why the bells and whistles?”

“We have a sighting.”

“What?”

“A teen matching Angelique’s description just tried to purchase a fresh burner phone using a fake ID. The ID bears the same name, Tamara Levesque, as the one given to the cybercafé clerk two weeks ago. Officer O’Shaughnessy is already there, fanning out with a few other units, hoping to get lucky.”

“We’re joining the hunt?” I don’t know which surprises me more: that there’s an active search after all these months, or that I’ve been invited to participate.

“We are not doing anything. I’m interviewing the sales specialists. You.” Lotham blew out a hard breath. “Heaven help me,” he muttered.

“I’m there for moral support?”

“No. You’re there because one of the witnesses, some guy named Charlie, asked for you.”

By the time we come to a screeching halt, the scene in front of the wireless company is a pile of blue uniformed officers, a crowd of gawkers, and, if I’m not mistaken, a number of corner dealers backpedaling furiously down the street.

Detective Lotham spares the retreating youths a look but doesn’t acknowledge or pursue. Today is their lucky day: The police have bigger fish to fry.

I spot Charlie almost immediately. He stands outside the storefront, his large size and authentic army jacket making a statement. Next to him stands a female beat cop, clearly waiting.

Detective Lotham ushers me through the crowd. Once on the other side of the madness, he pauses long enough to state, “When you’re done talking to your friend, remember who drove you here.” Then he disappears into the store, leaving me to cross the remaining space to Charlie.

I feel suddenly awkward, unsure of what to say. We’ve met only once, at an AA meeting. In the midst of this hoopla, why ask for me?

Charlie doesn’t speak right away, but nods his greeting.

Then he stares at the female officer. She gives me a look as if to say he’s all my problem now. She drifts off five feet. Still monitoring, but allowing some privacy.

“Detective Lotham said you asked for me.”

Charlie stares at me. He has his hands in his coat pockets. It makes him look bigger, broader. I don’t think he’s trying to appear intimidating as much as he simply can’t help it. But I still don’t find him threatening. The man joined the service because he has an instinct to protect. And some things, no matter the trauma, can’t be shaken.

“You asked about cheap cells,” Charlie says now. “You asked about the missing girl, Angelique Badeau. Just last night, you asked these questions.”

I nod.

“I stopped by the store today, to take care of some business. But as long as I was here, I started thinking, I started wondering. About you and your questions. Then I look up and I swear to God, there she is.”

“Angelique Badeau.”

“And she’s trying to buy a phone. I couldn’t help myself. I stared straight at her. Next thing I know, she’s snatching back her ID, tossing the new phone on the counter, and booking it out the door. Then the damn salesman starts yelling for security and the idiot runs right into me. By the time I get out onto the street, I can’t see her anymore. But she was in there. I swear it. Trying to buy a phone.” His eyes narrow. “How? You tell me. How did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” I tell him honestly. “Not that she’d buy a new phone. But I’d read in the paper that the police had recovered her original mobile eleven months ago. Figuring no teenager can be without a cell, stood to reason she’d bought a replacement along the way. That’s why I was asking about cheap burners. If I were a teenager with secrets, at least that’s what I’d buy.”

“You’re no teenager,” Charlie tells me.

I smile wanly. “But I do have secrets.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Frankie Elkin. I’m an alcoholic. I work as a bartender at Stoney’s, having just moved into the area. But I also have another passion—I work missing persons cases. Particularly cold cases. And yes, I came to Mattapan because of Angelique Badeau. I would like to find her.”

Charlie doesn’t speak right away. Neither does the female officer, who’s been shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Did you really spot Angelique Badeau?” I ask now.

“I’ve been looking at her photo for eleven months. Hell yes, I saw the girl.”

“Was there anyone else with her or did she appear to be alone?”

“Alone.”

“And when she exited? Anyone waiting outside?”

“Didn’t get that far. Had to drag some fat-ass mall cop off my foot before I could follow.”

Now our cop chaperone smirks.

“Did she walk away or get into a car?”

“Don’t know that either. But—” Charlie points up, to below the store awning where I can see two different cameras. “Cops should be able to answer that question soon enough.”

“What was her mood?” I ask, still trying to understand.

“Didn’t notice right away. But once I started staring, she got fidgety. Then she bolted and ran.”

“You ever meet her before, Charlie?”

“Not so much for a hot minute. This city ain’t that small, and our paths don’t exactly cross.”

“Charlie, I went to the rec center today. Talked to the director, Frédéric. You said your and Angelique’s paths didn’t cross, but she attended the summer program there, and you volunteer there.”

“I help out after school, mentoring young Black males, teach ’em skills like cooking, so they can get a job and stay out of the life. Maybe that girl was also in the center, but I never saw her. Not like she’d be in one of my groups. She in trouble?”

“I think so.”

“So why run? She’s out buying a phone on her own. Why not ask for help?”

“I don’t know.”

“But she’s clearly alive and still hasn’t returned home. Meaning maybe she doesn’t want to. Maybe she has a good reason to stay away.”

I understand his point. Two public sightings of Angelique in two weeks. Both times she’s bearing fake ID and appears to be acting independently. And yet, it still doesn’t make any sense to me. The Angelique her family knew would never willingly disappear. Let alone her coded message: Help us. I simply don’t believe she’s a runaway. But as to what is going on . . . ?

“How did she look?” I ask at last. “Tired? Rested? Well fed? Starving?”

Charlie has to think about it. He shrugs at last. “Looked like a teenage girl. Blue jeans, light gray sweatshirt. Had an emblem on the front, but I couldn’t make it out from my angle.”

“And her face?”

“Couldn’t see it. She was wearing a hat.”

“A red hat?”

“How did you know that?” His tone is suspicious again.

“I’m sorry, I can’t honestly say, Charlie. The police have their reasons for making only some details public.”

He scowls at me but doesn’t press. “I woulda helped her,” he says abruptly. “All she had to do was ask. I woulda helped her.”

“Maybe she couldn’t ask. Sometimes, in these situations, the bad guys threaten a person’s loved ones.”

“Or get the girls hooked, so they don’t wanna wander.”

I can’t deny it. “Did she look like an addict?”

“Nah. Moved too quick. Darted right out the door. Addicts don’t have that kind of control.”

I nod. “I think she got tangled up in something. But I don’t know what, and I really don’t even have proof of that. If you see her again, though, I do think she needs help, Charlie. One last thing: Could you make out an emblem or logo on the hat?”

“Not that I saw. But I didn’t get a good look head on. Dark red cap, don’t see so many of those around here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Kids generally wear hats from their favorite teams. Patriots, Red Sox, Bruins. Those hats are navy blue or black. Just look around. You’ll see ’em everywhere.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, I have been seeing dark blue ball caps everywhere. Belatedly, I remember my slip of paper from the rec center. I pull it out of my back pocket, unfold it, and hold it out.

“Do you recognize any of these names, Charlie? From the rec center, around town, anything?”

Charlie studies the list of fashion camp kids for a while. He grunts twice, then points at the two teenage boys. “Seen them around. One is the younger brother of one of my kids. Good boys. Trying hard to stay out of trouble, as much as they can. Wait a minute. This name here.” He points to one of the females on the list. “Livia Samdi. I’ve heard this name. Recently.” He scratches his beard, appears thoughtful.

He drops his voice abruptly as the connection hits him. “At a meeting. Months ago. Pretty sure now. Her mom was there, had recently relapsed after nearly a year sober. Going through a tough time, she said. Lost her job, had her son arrested, then on top of all that, her daughter ran away.”

“Her daughter ran away? As in Livia Samdi went missing?”

“That’s what the mom thought. And not for the first time either. Apparently, Livia’s one of those kids—wherever she went, trouble soon followed. But no doubt about it. She’s definitely gone. The mom said so herself.”