Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 33

I feel like I have my breathing relatively under control by the time I dial Lotham, but I must not be as good as I think because in a matter of seconds:

“What’s wrong? Where are you? Is it the guy in the tracksuit?”

“The guy in the tracksuit has a name. Deke. He’s Livia and Johnson Samdi’s older half brother.”

“What?”

“I ran into J.J.”

“What?”

“This would go faster if you’d stop interrupting.”

“Are you okay? Tell me that much.”

“I’m fine. I visited the rec center. Now I’m walking home having made some progress.” I’m not walking home, but I don’t feel like telling Lotham that particular detail. “From the top?”

“Christ,” Lotham says. He sounds exhausted. “From the top.”

“Roseline Samdi has an older son named Deke by another man. Apparently, Deke has been in prison for armed robbery, but he’s clearly out now, and he’s the one who was watching Livia at the rec center.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. According to J.J., his own mother would have nothing to do with Deke, he’s such a cold bastard. But get this. Shortly after Deke went to prison, young J.J. stumbled upon a shoe box filled with counterfeit hundreds. He was working his way through spending them all when he got caught passing forgeries. After that, he tucked the rest away, where I’m guessing Livia discovered them years later.”

“Older brother Deke had a stash of counterfeit hundreds?”

“Apparently he was an aspirational criminal. Wanted to get into the big leagues. Armed robbery was a means to buy his way into another, larger criminal enterprise that offered better career advancement.”

Lotham doesn’t talk right away. It’s a lot to take in, so I don’t blame him.

“You think Deke knew his half siblings were peddling his pre-prison counterfeit stash?”

“I don’t know. Deke is clearly out now and had some kind of interaction with Livia. Livia had clearly discovered the counterfeit bills and passed them along to Angelique. Which leaves us with? Half brother and sister comparing notes on forgeries, bigger criminal enterprises, future career opportunities? Hell if I know. But Marjolie links Livia to Deke, and according to J.J., anything involving Deke is bad news.”

“You got a last name?” Lotham asks.

“I didn’t think to ask that,” I admit.

“Can’t be too hard to track down. One paroled armed robber named Deke. Vice or gang taskforce probably has him on file.”

“But wait, there’s more.”

Another silence. This one radiates tension. As if Lotham is angry at me. Which gets me huffy, because what does he have to be pissed off about? I’m the one doing all the work here.

“Go ahead,” he says at last, and there’s definitely a cool edge to his voice. Big bad Boston cop frustrated that the civilian is making all the cool discoveries? Fuck him, I think. But my feelings are hurt.

“I went to the rec center,” I hear myself say, “to talk with the director again. Turns out, in addition to the summer program, the center offers after-school activities. Including a class in computer design taught by none other than Mr. Riddenscail. Who wrote a grant gifting the center with twelve computers and one 3D printer.”

Lotham manages not to exclaim what this time, but I can tell he’s thinking it.

“Livia Samdi was in that class,” he states.

“Yep.”

“Angelique?”

“I didn’t ask. Livia’s attendance is grounds enough for a warrant, right? I mean, she goes missing, then turns up dead. Surely some judge somewhere will grant you access to the rec center’s computers.”

“I think I can manage that much.”

“Don’t hurt anything.” Now I’m the edgy one.

“I looked up Paul,” Lotham says abruptly. “I found the case, Frankie. I know what happened.”

I don’t say anything. It’s not a question and doesn’t deserve an answer. Besides, it’s none of his business. It’s no one’s business but mine and Paul’s. And yet all these years later, ten long years later, I can feel my throat closing up and my eyes starting to sting.

I think of J.J. and his feral grief. I know exactly how he feels.

“What are you doing?” Lotham asks me quietly. “Between you and me, Frankie. What are you doing here?”

“Finding Angelique Badeau.”

“It won’t change anything.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“And if you get yourself killed in the process? Is that what you want? You don’t have the courage to do it yourself, so you’ll just keeping chasing this madness till someone does it for you?”

“Fuck you.” But there’s no heat behind the words. He’s not saying anything I haven’t wondered myself. “Don’t you have a murder to investigate?”

“As I believe you told me once, I can multitask.”

“Then what do you have to show for the morning, because I just gave you plenty.”

“I have bags of trace evidence and piles of security feeds to watch. I can tell you a plain white van pulled into Franklin Park shortly after midnight. I know the license plate was smeared with mud to obscure the numbers. I can tell you the driver’s face is hard to make out, but height and profile is about right to be a tall, skinny Black male. I can also tell you, there was a passenger in the van. She was wearing a ball cap.”

“Deke and Angelique,” I murmur. But then I catch myself. “Except it can’t be Deke, because he was standing outside my window last night.”

“According to the time stamp on the video . . . You’re probably right, it’s not Deke.”

Which leaves me as confused as Lotham feels. Clearly there were other players involved, who’d kidnapped Angelique and Livia, who most likely took turns watching over the girls. But again, who and why? What the hell had Angelique and Livia gotten themselves into that involved both of them missing for nearly a year, not to mention a college in Western Mass?

“I have to go,” I tell Lotham.

“I need to know you’re being careful, Frankie. No chasing down this Deke. Meeting with J.J. Samdi was risky enough.”

“I’m not looking for Deke,” I say, thinking, no need. J.J.’s got it covered.

“Will you please talk to me?”

“No. This is my life, my choices. Manage your own.”

I click off the phone. I honestly don’t want to hear it. I’m well aware of my strengths, and I’m well aware of my weaknesses. And I’ve designed a lifestyle that fits both accordingly.

Right now, that lifestyle involves locating Angelique Badeau.

I don’t have a time machine. There’s nothing I can do that will ever change what happened ten years ago. No amount of handwashing that erases the blood, no amount of repenting that eases the guilt. I screwed up. Paul died. It is both that simple and that haunting.

And now? Now my life is about helping others, serving victims.

I already failed Livia Samdi. Meaning now, more than ever, I need to get this right.

Angelique Badeau, here I come.

I take a taxi to Livia’s school. I don’t have the time or energy to figure out the maze of buses it takes to get from here to there. Class is in session when I talk my way through the front doors and head to Mr. Riddenscail’s room. I let myself in, standing in the back. He’s not lecturing, but drifting from workstation to workstation, checking each student’s designs, offering comments here and there. He spots me immediately, pausing as he inspects a male student’s drawing on the computer monitor. His guilty conscience? Does he already know why I’m here or at least suspect he couldn’t get away with it forever?

I’m not the police, but I don’t need to be. I want answers. After that, Lotham can have at him.

I wait. Riddenscail continues to focus on his class. Twelve computers, I note now. The same number as at the rec center. This is where it started, I think. Whatever it is that got Livia and Angelique in so much trouble. The idea to design their own fake IDs? If a jerk like DommyJ could do it, why not them? Livia would be the design team, Angelique marketing. Both had the brains to think bigger, better. Livia would knock off near-perfect fakes. Angelique would sell them. Given the number of underage college kids in Boston looking to join Marjolie’s club-hopping and pub-crawling ways . . . That would certainly explain the amount of cash in Angelique’s lamp, while Livia would’ve contributed the counterfeit hundreds from her own household.

Had they thought if they mixed the fake Franklins with real bills it would improve their chances of being able to spend the money?

Which is where I started to get lost again. Why the college pics? No way two teenagers ran off to attend a college under an alias. Let alone, why would Angelique have dressed up as Livia to do so, and why would Livia appear so terrified?

Then there was Livia’s meeting with her long-lost half brother. Not to mention Livia’s body, discovered just this morning, laid out in a tranquil park environment . . .

Running out of time. Livia dead, Angelique soon to follow. What happened, what happened, what happened?

I had so many questions for Mr. Riddenscail. And no more patience for lies.

A bell finally rings. The students rise, pack up their stuff. Several of them eye me curiously. Mr. Riddenscail and I are the only white people in the room. Maybe they think I’m his girlfriend or an acquaintance coming to meet him. No one asks. The kids simply shuffle out the door, some already deep in conversation as they head to the next classroom.

No kids file in to take their place. I must’ve caught Mr. Riddenscail on a break.

He’s already moved to the front of the room, where he’s pecking away at his keyboard. Lotham should get a warrant for that computer. He probably will. He’s thorough that way. Looking up Paul . . .

I order myself to focus.

“I assume you have more questions about Livia?” Riddenscail says at last. “Or would you like to learn more about 3D printers, the AutoCAD platform, design basics?”

“I’ve come from the rec center,” I say, watching him closely for his response.

He taps a few more keys, then glances up. He regards me patiently, as if waiting for me to say more.

“I know about the grant. The computers and 3D printer you got for the after-school program. The class you taught there that also included Livia Samdi.”

He continues to stare at me blankly.

“Why didn’t you tell us that earlier?”

“Honestly? I didn’t think of it. You were asking questions about Livia in this class, so that’s what I focused on.”

“You made it sound like you didn’t really know her. Yet you had her for multiple classes at multiple locations. That doesn’t sound like a distant relationship to me.”

“Actually, I told you I’d pushed her to sign up for a spring competition. That’s what she was working on at the rec center. Preparation. That location was more convenient for her, as it was walking distance from her house. Plus, she needed my help to figure out some of the newer tricks involving the software. So when I was running the after-school program at the rec center, it made more sense for her to join me there. I said she was gifted and I was trying to get her to come out of her shell. I’m sorry if I missed some of the details.”

“Livia Samdi is dead.”

Now I get a response. His face goes pale. He sits down heavily in his desk chair.

“When?” he asks softly.

“They found her body this morning.” I peer at him closely. But I don’t see any evidence of guilt. Just shock, and maybe even grief.

He swallows hard. “What happened?”

“Someone strangled her, then dumped her body in Franklin Park.”

“Oh my God. That poor girl.” He trembles slightly, wipes at his eyes.

“What was she doing here? What had she gotten herself into? It’s time to talk, Riddenscail. Before you find yourself hauled in on murder charges. What the hell did you have her doing?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I certainly didn’t kill anyone. She had such promise. I was sure she was going to get out, go off to college. I already hoped . . .”

He shudders again, swipes his eyes with the back of his hand. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the man is crying.

Maybe I don’t know any better. I finally move away from the door and approach. “Look at me.”

Riddenscail drops his hand. His cheeks are wet with tears. He looks devastated.

“Don’t you think this is a bit much for a student you claim you didn’t even know?”

“I knew enough. I saw enough. What, you think I’m doing this job for the great pay?” He waves his hand around the tired classroom, with its beat-up linoleum floor and stained drop ceiling. “I show up each day for kids like Livia. The ones who sit in front of those computers, and for the first time in their lives can see their own futures. The software clicks for them, 3D design makes sense. And just like that, they have college potential and job opportunities and an entirely new track to follow. Those kids make everything else worth it. Those kids are why people like me become teachers in the first place.”

I continue to regard him suspiciously, but I’m finding less and less justification. So far, this conversation isn’t going anything like I’d thought.

“Could Livia have forged a driver’s license? Did she understand design and computers that well?”

Riddenscail stares at me. Abruptly, he reaches into his pocket. I’m just stiffening in alarm when he withdraws a small key, inserts it into the lock on his desk drawer, and opens it. He pulls out his wallet, from which he takes his driver’s license. For inspection, I realize. Because how many of us truly pay attention to such things.

“You were asking about forgeries and stamps earlier. Could Livia forge something. But I thought you were looking at currency.”

“We’re now thinking fake IDs.”

He nods slowly, turns his own Massachusetts driver’s license over in his hand. “The background, definitely easy. I bet you can find a template online. The hologram, that’s specialized technology, ink. I don’t think she could do that. Certainly, I don’t know how.”

“She faked it with brighter ink. Not perfect, but close enough for say, getting into a bar.”

“Given that, yeah, Livia could design and print out a license. Especially if the standard is merely close enough. But I never saw her working on anything like that here. Not that she’d need the AutoCAD. This is way simpler than 3D design. But she would need a computer and a very high-quality printer for the specialty inks.”

“You have that kind of printer here?”

“Yes. But I don’t have fancy ink cartridges. The basic ones are expensive enough.”

“Detective Lotham will be here soon with a warrant. And given that printers store information in their cache, you might as well tell me now.”

Riddenscail shakes his head. “I have nothing to tell. If Livia was counterfeiting licenses, it wasn’t on my watch and it wasn’t here. I haven’t seen her since January. So warrant away. For that matter, this school is covered in cameras. Check them, too. Livia hasn’t been here. If she had . . . I would’ve tried to get her back into school. I would’ve tried to connect with her, find out what made her go away. I would’ve—”

His voice breaks. He rubs his eyes again.

I want to say something, press the advantage, but I’ve got nothing. Abruptly, I feel stupid, standing in front of a classroom, making a grown man cry.

“Did you ever see Livia with a tall, skinny guy, prone to retro fashion statements?”

Mr. Riddenscail looks right at me. “Older guy? Definitely. At the rec center. He met up with her several times when she was done. I assumed he was her father, come to walk her home. I thought it was sweet.”

“He wasn’t her father,” I inform him, “but her recently paroled half brother. If you see him again, please contact the police immediately.”

“Okay.” Mr. Riddenscail’s voice has dropped again, clearly getting overwhelmed.

“Have you ever heard of Gleeson College?” I press him, trying desperately to gain some shred of data from this conversation. “It’s located in Western Mass.”

“No. But then, I can’t even begin to list all the colleges in Boston.”

“Can I show you something? On your computer. It’ll only take a minute.”

He nods, pushing back from his desk as I take over the keyboard. I load up the website for Gleeson College, scrolling through till I find the picture with Livia in the background. Then I gesture for Riddenscail to join me.

“That certainly looks like Livia. On a college website. Huh.” He frowns, grabbing the mouse and scrolling down the page to view more photos. Then he clicks on various options from the drop-down menu, surfing the site, with its photo after photo of laughing, happy kids sitting before rolling green hills. “Hang on. I may have something for you. I swear I’ve seen this before . . .”

More internet navigation. Riddenscail flies across the screen, clearly a guy comfortable with technology. He opens and closes a series of pages in rapid succession. I barely have time to note the names of colleges before he’s moved on, one after another after another.

Then: “Got it.” He steps back, indicating for me to move in closer. I study the screen, then frown at him. “You have the website open in two different windows.”

“Look at the title bar.”

I read the headings. Gleeson College, says one. Lannister College, says the other. The photos are the same. Smiling kids in classrooms. Laughing kids hanging out in front of rolling green hills. They aren’t similar; they’re identical.

“Give me a sec.” Riddenscail grabs the keyboard, his fingers flying. He’s back on the page for Gleeson, clicking on links at the bottom. Again, too fast for me to follow.

“Okay, you need a computer forensic specialist to be sure, but this website for Gleeson, it’s months old. As in, this whole college magically sprang to life over the summer. With most of these photos lifted from other colleges’ websites. At least the outside shots and pictures of buildings. And I’m going to guess from several different schools, now that I’m studying it more.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Let me put it this way. I don’t know if Livia was faking licenses, but to judge by this website, she definitely faked a school. Though why you’d invent an entire college . . .” Riddenscail shakes his head at me. “Your guess is as good as mine.”