Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 23

I’m at my best when I’m busy. After leaving Detective Lotham, I head back to Stoney’s. The pub is up and running with the regulars. Tables half full. Noise half volume. It’s only been a matter of days, but it still feels strange not to take up position behind the bar. I drift up to my studio apartment, where I discover that Piper has abandoned me for the night. Given it’s my night off, I could catch up on sleep or finally tend to household tasks such as laundry and grocery shopping.

Instead, I do the sensible thing: I attend a meeting. Given the earlier hour, I’m surprised, but not unhappy, to discover Charlie also there. I take the empty seat beside him, sipping on coffee as we run through introductions, then get down to business. This meeting is about the twelve steps, step nine in particular. Making amends. I’ve never gone through all twelve steps. It’s not the apologizing for the wrongs I’ve done—I get that completely. It’s cataloguing all my sins that has me hung up. For all my talk of honesty, there’s only so much scrutiny I can handle. Though asking for forgiveness is also an issue. How do you apologize to the dead?

I get through the meeting, content to once again be in the company of like minds, even if the topic isn’t my favorite.

I help Charlie clean up after the meeting, working in companionable silence. Then, almost in sync: “Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?”

AA-speak for would you like to talk?

We smile in unison. “Yes.”

I follow him from the church basement into the fall-tinged night. He seems to know where he’s going, so I don’t worry about it as we weave from block to block. Finally, we arrive at a tiny little diner I never would’ve found on my own. When Charlie walks in, with his telltale bulk and army jacket, he’s clearly recognized and greeted as a friend. I earn a glance or two from the staff, but his welcome expands to include me. I smile openly, happy for friendly faces after my morning adventures.

Charlie takes a seat near the back. He doesn’t even have to ask before a mug of rich, dark coffee is set before him. I nod I’ll take the same. I still haven’t eaten, so I ask for a menu. Charlie says he’s fine. After a brief contemplation, I go with the Greek salad, which makes me think of Lotham and other things I don’t want to consider.

My salad arrives in a matter of minutes, given we’re the only two customers around. I dig in, munching happily on romaine lettuce and kalamata olives, while Charlie sips his coffee.

“Thank you for yesterday,” I say finally. Charlie’s sighting of Angelique Badeau at the wireless store. His personal request for me at the scene. His tidbit on Livia Samdi also having disappeared.

“Any news?” he asks.

“Nothing tangible yet. I visited Mrs. Samdi this morning.” I hesitate, not sure what to say.

“There by the grace of God go I,” Charlie intones.

I nod vigorously and we lapse into a silence, weighted by the shared horror of that one single drink that can undo our hours, months, years of hard work. There’s no judgment in AA; only mutual fear.

“I tried to get her to leave with me,” I venture at last. “Join me in attending a meeting.”

“Can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

I nod, chewing slowly. “Her house, her son . . . I don’t know if I could do it in those conditions.”

“For the longest time,” Charlie says, “I figured I couldn’t get clean, not living on the streets. But then, later . . . I wondered if homelessness wasn’t easier. Took all the responsibility, the agitation of daily life away. Mad, sad, or glad . . . We don’t need a reason to drink. It’s just easier to blame it on something else.”

I nod. He’s right. Mrs. Samdi’s living conditions are deplorable, but not impossible. AA teaches us that our worst enemy lives not outside the gates but inside our souls. We need no excuses to drink. As long as we have air in our lungs, it will always be a temptation.

And yet I’m sad for her in ways I can’t fully explain. She’s a prisoner of more than just her disease. Her family, poverty, lifestyle choices—the causes are endless.

“You seem to be . . .” I’m not sure exactly how to state this, “. . . in touch with street life around here.”

Charlie grins, a flash of white against his heavyset face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there a gang, criminal organization around here sophisticated enough for counterfeit currency?”

This raises a brow. “U.S. dollars?”

“Hundred-dollar bills to be exact.”

The brow rises higher. “That’s some fine work. How high-quality are you talking?”

“Very high end. Extremely well done.”

Charlie takes another sip of his decaf coffee, appears to seriously contemplate the matter. “Aren’t you talking special paper, metallic threads, watermarks, all sorts of crazy stuff?”

“Exactly.”

“Then no. We got our fair share of crime, and some of these boys . . . Don’t let an appetite for violence fool you into thinking they aren’t smart. But that kind of technical know-how, specialized equipment . . . Nah. Not in a million years.”

I nod, share with him what I learned about counterfeiting operations from Lotham: bills printed in Europe, then sold to middlemen for pennies on the dollar, eventually sold to end users for sixty-five cents on the dollar.

“Thirty-five percent markup,” Charlie deduces, nodding. “Makes sense. Person who spends the money should get the highest percentage as they bear the greatest risk.” He sips more coffee. “End users . . . Now that I could see around here. Drugs and guns require cash. If some new player arrived and said I could sell you cheap money . . . Yeah, plenty of players would go for that.” He pauses. “And plenty of other players would kill their sorry asses once they realized they got paid in fake bills. Risky proposition all the way round.”

“But given the demand . . .”

“No pain, no gain, as the saying goes. I imagine at least a few would be willing to try it out.”

I lean forward. “Any players in particular?”

Charlie has to think about it. “Can’t say off the top of my head. But I can think of a few people to ask.”

“If it doesn’t jam you up.”

“I don’t mind. But I’d like to ask why.”

Briefly, I explain to him the counterfeit money discovered in Angelique’s lamp, not to mention her friendship with Livia Samdi and Livia’s expertise with 3D printers, which may or may not have anything to do with anything. And that Angelique was dressed up as Livia when she disappeared.

“You’re thinking Livia was the real target?”

“Maybe. Possibly. When I’m arrogant enough to know what to think.”

“But then Livia still went missing. And Angelique’s still alive.”

“Yes.”

“Hell, that doesn’t make a damn lick of sense.”

“Exactly.”

Charlie drains his coffee mug, waves over the waitress for a refill.

“All right. So if Livia was the target, and the girls are still alive—”

“Angelique smuggled out a message. Help us.”

“Damn, that’s scary. But . . .” Charlie considers the matter. “If the girls are still alive but can’t come home, are like, held against their will?”

I nod.

“Then they must be worth something, right? Only reason to keep them alive, cuz the girls know something or are doing something their captors need.”

I like the way he puts that. Simple, logical. The girls know something or are doing something. “Which brings us back to Livia’s skills with AutoCAD and 3D printing. But that’s still not enough for counterfeiting currency, and apparently plastic guns aren’t nearly as valuable as we thought.”

Charlie’s turn to nod. “If counterfeiting currency is like advanced math or something, then what about other kinds of forgeries? Starting with fake Real IDs. Now that would be worth some serious dough.”

“Explain.”

“Back in my day, a fake driver’s license was a simple matter of prying apart the lamination and inserting a new photo. More recently, I’ve heard some of the kids at the rec center talk about buying fakes online, especially foreign IDs. Say from Ireland, places like that. You wanna sneak into a bar, it gets the job done. But now, with states transitioning to Real ID . . .”

“Which is very sophisticated, right? Watermarks, hidden images, reflective ink. Isn’t that why it’s now the new standard for TSA?”

“Exactly. The old model of fake driver’s licenses just doesn’t cut it. World’s getting serious, meaning everyone, including criminals, gotta get serious. I’m not saying faking a Real ID would be easy, but compared to forged bills, gotta be a step down.” Charlie shrugs.

I think of Angelique, showing up at the cybercafé with a fake ID. Then trying to buy a cell phone from the wireless store with the same ID. Letting it fall to the ground in her escape.

I wonder suddenly if we hadn’t missed the obvious. She hadn’t been trying to leave us a coded message. The ID itself was the clue.

“I’ll be damned,” I mutter.

“Not as long as you keep from drinking.”

“Charlie, are there any new players in town? I don’t know. New gangs, or criminal enterprises? Even something that seems like a whisper of a ghost story. Keyser Soze, that sort of thing?”

Charlie arches a brow. “Street loves a good ghost story. But not that I’ve heard.”

“What about a newer gang rising to sudden prominence? A power grab?”

This takes him longer to consider. “Maybe,” he says at last. “For all the evils in Mattapan . . . Most of our gangs are small. Fractured. Got not just Blacks versus other Blacks, but El Salvadorans versus Asian versus Haitians. Can be a block-by-block sort of thing. Keeps the violence high as someone is always shooting someone, but also keeps the level of sophistication low. Nobody gets big enough or lasts long enough to do too much damage. What you’re suggesting . . .”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting.”

“Quality fake IDs, quality fake money, or at least access to quality counterfeits . . .”

I wait.

“Off the top of my head, I’d say it doesn’t have to be a new gang,” he says slowly, “but maybe a traditional player with a new connection. I can do some digging.”

“Don’t put yourself at risk.”

Charlie glances down at his imposing size. “I’ve been around a long time, little girl. Grew up in this town. Lived on these streets. Don’t you worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aren’t you sweet for a woman who doesn’t stick around?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not sentimental.”

“Think it means exactly that.”

“No.” I shake my head seriously. “I just know how to live with the pain.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

“You really think these girls, Angelique and Livia, are caught up in some sort of criminal enterprise?” he asks at last.

“I think . . . I think Livia was clearly terrified of something. You can see it on her face on the security camera. And the fact that Angelique left her school disguised as her friend . . . Angelique’s been described as a nurturer. Let alone, she clearly had a close relationship with Livia. Maybe a very close relationship.”

Charlie arches a brow, doesn’t say anything.

“I can imagine Angelique trying to devise a plan to help her friend. Save Livia. Except.” I sigh sadly. “They are just kids. And you know how it is with teens. They get in trouble first.”

“Figure out the real danger later,” Charlie finishes for me.

“Exactly. Whatever usefulness they’ve had for their captors, I’m wondering if it’s nearing an end. Hence Angelique’s desperate attempts at contact. Posting a coded message, appearing in the wireless shop. Something’s changed, the clock ticking down in a genuinely terrible, dangerous way. Given the two have been missing this long, nothing to stop their captors from disappearing them completely.”

“Damn,” Charlie mutters. “I’ll keep an ear out.” Then, more softly, so only I can hear. “But as long as we’re talking danger, you should know I did learn a few things, but it wasn’t about them.”

It takes me second. “About me?”

“You’re asking too many questions. Your visit today to the Samdi household got people riled up.”

“Who? And is that why he shot at me?”

“You need to be more careful, my friend.”

“Why? If Livia’s brother is just some low-level dope dealer, who cares about my visit?”

“You can get killed for looking wrong around here. Don’t trust you’re as immune as you think.”

I tilt up my chin in an impressive display of false bravado. “I’m here to find a missing girl. Or girls, as the case may be. I’m gonna keep going till that job is done. You can start your own rumor on the streets—they want the skinny white chick to go away, then produce Angelique and Livia. I’ll be gone within a matter of hours. On my word.”

“Doesn’t work like that.”

“Does for me.”

Charlie smiles, but it’s a briefer expression this time. He leans forward. “Watch your back, little lady.”

“I’ve been in tough places before.”

“Not like this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been to war, and it still wasn’t as scary as living around here.”

I don’t have an answer to that. I finish my salad. Charlie finishes his coffee. I pay for both of us—then, despite my protests, Charlie walks me home.

Even then, I’m suddenly aware of all the dark shapes around us, noises from side streets, small gatherings in the dark. One kid with a gun. All it would take. Quick, dirty, effective. Charlie’s not wrong about that.

At the side entrance to Stoney’s, I kiss my newfound friend on the cheek in gratitude, then retreat upstairs and hole up in the solitude of my apartment.

I call Lotham. It’s late, but it doesn’t surprise me that he picks up immediately.

“You should pull the fake ID Angelique dropped yesterday. I have reason to believe the ID itself might be a clue.”

A pause, the weight of many unasked questions, such as why did I believe such a thing now and who might I have been speaking with. Then: “I’ll retrieve it from evidence first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

Then, we don’t speak. I stay on my puny little flip phone. I listen to him breathe. And it’s like knives flaying my skin. The sense of déjà vu. The harsh knowledge that this is the only way I know how to connect. All these years later, nothing has changed. I am me, and the rest of the world, the good guys like Paul, like Lotham . . .

“Good night,” I say at last, my voice thick. I might be crying, but I don’t want to be.

“Good night,” he agrees.

He ends the call. I sit in my threadbare room, holding my phone against my chest and telling myself I have no reason to be sad when this is the life I’ve chosen for myself. Eventually, I change into my sleeping clothes, brush my teeth, and climb into bed. Lights out. One day done, another soon to begin.

But once again, my dreams haunt me.

Paul: “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

Me: “I just have work to do.”

“Are you drinking again?”

“No! It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then why all the secrecy, the disappearing act?”

“I told you, I’m looking into something, a friend’s missing daughter . . .”

“What’s it to you?”

Me, hostile: “What’s it to you?”

“There you go again. I’m trying to ask a question, you make it a war.”

“I’m not making it a war!”

“You keep secrets, Frankie. You enforce boundaries, erect walls. Then turn around and try to pretend it doesn’t matter. What’s it going to take for you to be honest with me?”

“What’s it going to take for you to trust me?”

“You’re an addict. You really have to ask that?”

Me, staring at him, feeling my throat thicken and my chest compress. “It’s not always about drinking!”

“Then what’s it about?”

My mouth opens, but the words don’t come out. I stare at his kind, earnest face. I gaze into the eyes of the man who loves me. And once again, I feel nothing but my own frantic heartbeat. I gotta go. I gotta get out. I can’t handle this.

I found this man. I fell in love with his kindness, his patience. He saw me, all of me, and he didn’t turn away. He let me in. He held back my hair while I puked my way through detox. He spoon-fed me broth while I slowly fought my way back to living. He crawled into bed beside me, all those horrific nights, when I shook uncontrollably and prayed for death but never actually let go because I didn’t want to disappoint him.

He is my anchor. The best person I’ve ever met. If I think of life without him, I feel pain, way down deep in the place that alcohol once took away, and now I will always get to live with.

And yet, day after day after day. This life. This existence. I don’t feel joy or contentment or everlasting peace.

I think, most of the time, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me.

I think, all of the time. I wish I could disappear. Vanish without a trace. Never to be seen again.

My hand, on the doorknob, trembling slightly. “I’ll be back later.”

Paul, his handsome face now contorted. “Don’t bother.”

“Okay.”

“It’s that easy for you? Just walk away, never look back? For God’s sake, I love you, Frankie.”

Me, twisting the doorknob. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you have to say? Fucking okay? You break my heart.”

“I love you,” I whisper finally, though it’s not enough. We both know it’s not enough. I so wish I were on the other side of the door. I so wish . . .

“Get the fuck out, Frankie.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not,” he says bitterly. “It never was.”

And me, a stupid broken record. “Okay.”

I leave.

He lets me.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

And then, mere hours, days, an entire lifetime later:

“What did you do, Frankie? Dear God, what did you do?”

Now I’m the one crying. I’m the one cradling his head in my arms. The blood, the blood, the blood. Dear God, the blood.

“I love you. I love you, I love you. I promise I loved you.”

But there’s just so much blood. As his eyes close, and his breath starts to rattle.

“What did you do?” Paul asks me, one last time.

“I loved you . . .”

I wake up screaming. Or maybe I’m sobbing. It’s hard to be sure which. Piper is curled up against my lower back. I focus on the sound of her rumbling purr as I stare into the dark, willing my breathing to ease, the horror to fade.

Paul is gone.

Two girls are missing.

And I am still me. Afraid of everything. Of anything.

I will find Angelique and Livia, I promise myself, hands fisting the sheets. I will bring them home. I swear it. Because I need this. Need it.

Which explains the phone call I get next.