Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 34

I exit Livia’s school feeling befuddled and overwhelmed. I need to get back to Stoney’s for my work shift. I need to call Lotham and let him know about Gleeson College. I need . . . magic answers, the secrets of the universe, an X that marks the spot. I rub my forehead, squinting against the bright sun as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

I’d just flipped it open when it starts ringing. I answer it in surprise. “Hello?”

“This is Emmanuel. They say the police found a girl’s body. In Franklin Park. Is it . . .”

“Oh, honey. It’s not Angelique. I’m so sorry, Emmanuel. You didn’t need to be worried. If it were Angelique, your family would be the first notified, not the morning news.”

Emmanuel doesn’t speak right away. I can hear his breathing, hard and ragged. He must’ve been terrified. And why the hell hadn’t Lotham or Officer O’Shaughnessy contacted Guerline and her nephew?

“What . . . what about the other girl?” Emmanuel murmurs. “LiLi’s secret friend?”

I wince. I’d hoped he wouldn’t connect those dots. I’m not sure how much I should say without his aunt present. But my general policy is to start with the truth.

“The body was identified as Livia Samdi.”

Loud swallow. “How was she killed?”

“The police are still investigating.”

“And LiLi? Have there been any more sightings? Now, with her friend dead . . .” His voice edges toward fresh panic.

“No new sightings. But that’s good, Emmanuel. It means she’s alive. We’re going to find her.”

Long pause. Then, very softly: “I’m scared.”

“I’m scared, too.”

“You said you found people. Why can’t you find her? Why can’t anyone find LiLi?”

I give him a moment to deal with his grief. Of course he’s frustrated and terrified. I’m the professional, and I feel the same way myself. So I treat Emmanuel how I would like to be treated. I give him something to do.

“Emmanuel, have you ever heard of Gleeson College?”

“No.” Shuddery sigh. He’s regaining control, caught off guard by my question. Which is exactly what I wanted.

“It appears Livia or your sister created a website for a fake college. Can you think of any reason why? The website is new, as in from this summer. I’m guessing you’ll be able to determine that much. Most of it appears to be derived from stock photos copied from other, existing universities.”

“I . . . I don’t know why anyone would do that. Gleeson C? I’ll look it up.”

Perfect project for the internet junkie and a legitimate task. Our assumption had been that Angelique and Livia had been kept alive for their skills. Though forging a college had never entered our thoughts. And still confused me. But still. The college was a forgery, as Riddenscail had revealed. Completed this summer. With Livia now dead just months later. Because that had been the task and it had been completed? Though again, what could be so special about a college website?

I momentarily change gears. “What about the name Deke? Or, have you seen a tall skinny guy in a tracksuit and gold chains hanging around your house?”

“No, no. I don’t know any Deke. Is he another new friend of my sister’s?”

“He’s a person of interest in the investigation,” I say, sounding so much like a cop I’m worried Lotham has contaminated me.

“A suspect?” Now Emmanuel is excited.

“Not necessarily. But close. We’re making progress. I promise, Emmanuel. There is nothing more important to me right now than your sister. Me, Detective Lotham, Officer O’Shaughnessy, we are on this. Full time, all the time, completely obsessed. Now, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I was. But then I heard the news. And I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t. I am outside now. There’s a no-cell-phones policy in the classrooms.” Emmanuel pauses. “I found something.”

“With the fake license? You decoded the number?” My turn for excitement.

“I can’t figure out the license number. It is something, but I’m not sure what. I have a friend with a computer program for algorithms. I’m taking it to him. But the other things, my mother’s birthday, the year of Haiti’s independence. LiLi misses my mom.”

I nod into the phone. He had mentioned this before.

“So . . . I got down my mother’s picture. And I opened it up.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I already tried that trick.

“There’s a piece of paper in the back. With a note from LiLi and a drawing from me. It is our offering to our manman. But this time, when I unfolded it, another slip of paper fell out.”

Now he has my attention. I’d just noted the sweet picture, never realizing it was on a folded scrap of paper. I’d been focused on locating evidence of more obvious crimes.

“It’s a receipt to an electronics store. Written across the top is a number. A phone number, in LiLi’s handwriting.”

“Emmanuel, do you have the receipt on you?”

“Yes.”

“Look at it. What did she purchase?”

“I already saw. A Tracfone.”

And just like that, I’m beyond excited. “Emmanuel, this is perfect! We know your sister had been using a burner phone, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But the police haven’t been able to do anything without a phone number. There’s nothing to trace, track, et cetera.”

“You can trace a Tracfone?”

“If it has GPS technology, yes you can. And these days, most of them do. It also has to be on at the moment of tracking.”

Emmanuel is getting it now. “The police, they could ping this number? Locate my sister? Just like that?”

“Assuming she has the phone on her.” I hesitate, just now seeing the flaw in my plan. “Which . . . may be a long shot. I’m assuming she bought the phone last fall?”

“August thirty-first.”

“I would guess it’s the one she used to communicate with Livia. Once Angelique disappeared, I don’t know if she would’ve kept the phone.” If she would’ve been allowed it, assuming she was being held against her will.

“Oh.” Emmanuel’s voice grows small. He’s a smart kid. He already understands what I’m not saying. What kind of kidnapper lets his victim keep her cell phone?

“But.” I do my best to rally. “There’s other information the police should be able to access, including previous calls, copies of texts, saved voice mails. There’s no telling how much we’ll learn from those alone. Including exactly what Angelique and Livia were up to.”

“Livia is dead,” Emmanuel says. His voice has definitely changed. He sounds flat, almost grim. Like a thirty-year-old man, versus a teen. “If she’s been killed . . .”

“We’re going to find your sister, Emmanuel. And you finding this receipt, that’s huge. Your sister’s talking, but you’re the one hearing. You get her messages.” My voice grows thick, despite myself. “You’re doing right by her, Emmanuel. I can’t . . .” My voice trails off. I have no words to tell him the power of this bond. I just hope he understands. Whatever happens next, it’s not his fault. It’s on me. And Detective Lotham. And neither one of us wants that kind of regret.

Though I can already picture Livia’s brother J.J. The kind of grief and rage that had the tattoos crawling across his skin. I would like to say we will do better, but fifteen dead bodies later, I don’t know. And it haunts me. Every case, every discovery, Lani Whitehorse’s body at the bottom of her local lake, it all haunts me.

I force myself to speak: “I need you to contact Officer O’Shaughnessy. Let him know about the receipt. The police need it immediately.”

“I have it in a plastic bag,” Emmanuel says.

Which makes me smile. His very own evidence bag. He has been paying attention.

“Gleeson College,” I remind him, glancing at my watch. I need to get moving.

“I’ll look it up,” he promises.

“The site includes a photo with your sister, as well as one with Livia. Just so you know.”

“I’m good with websites. I should be able to learn more, especially if it’s new, and copied from other sites.”

“Thank you, Emmanuel. And just . . . keep an eye out. Okay? For your sister, for anything out of the ordinary.”

“I’m spending the afternoon at my friend’s.”

“Good. Sounds like a plan.”

Emmanuel ends the call, I remain standing on the corner, phone still in hand. I’m exhausted, I realize now. And overwhelmed, but also overstimulated. Hyperaware. Which makes me feel it. That itch between the shoulder blades. Someone is watching me. I turn in place, not caring if I’m being obvious. I have to know. I want to see him.

But I just spot random pedestrians walking down the street. One guy here. Two women there. It’s quiet this time of day. A little too late for lunch, a little too early to be headed home.

One last look, then I start walking to the larger boulevard. I’m going to have to flag down a taxi, burn through more precious dollars. But I’m running out of time.

Angelique’s running out of time.

I dial up Lotham and prepare for his next lecture.

I come flying into work right at three p.m., after having just enough time to dart upstairs, wash my hands and face, and clip back my hair. Perfectly ready. Not late at all. I hit the tables, grabbing chairs, flipping them to the floor. Spray, wipe, spray, wipe. Then behind the bar, drying trays of clean glasses, stacking them up. To the kitchen. Lemons, limes, and cutting board. Slice, peel, slice, peel. Garnish tray filled. Countertop sparkling. Peanut bowls filled, ketchup bottles topped off. Beer kegs properly pressurized.

Ten minutes left, I attack the shelves of booze, pulling down each bottle, furiously wiping everything, then lining the bottles back up in perfect order. I scrub down the edge of the shelves, touch up the mirrored backdrop.

When I turn around, Stoney is standing there, staring at me.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“My head hurts.”

“Heard they found a girl’s body.”

“Livia Samdi. The other missing girl.” I falter, my hands falling to the countertop. “She was murdered.”

Stoney waits.

“I’ve been trying so hard to figure out the missing pieces, to reconstruct the trail that will lead us to both Livia and Angelique. But I didn’t make it in time. Once again, I’m too late.” I hate the raw edge to my voice, but I can’t stop it. These cases shouldn’t be personal to me. But they are. That’s the thing I can’t help, and Paul couldn’t understand.

Stoney waits.

“I just . . . I want to get it right,” I confess in a rush. “I want to be the one who brings home the missing loved one. I want to be there for the parade of hugs and sheer relief. Fourteen cases later, I need to get it right.”

“Angelique Badeau is still alive,” Stoney states.

“As far as we know.”

“Then you still got a job to do.” Stoney holds up his key ring.

I get his drift. Working out there, working in here. Livia is gone. But Angelique still needs me. Charlie would approve of this strategy. Focus on the souls you can still save.

Not on the pieces of yourself you lost along the way.

I unlock the front door and get to it. Happy hour starts off too slow for my jangly nerves. I refill peanut bowls the second they’re down a nut, top off water glasses after the first sip. Given how many of my customers didn’t even ask for water, I earn plenty of strange looks. But I have to keep moving. To stand still is to think. To think is to descend once more into the abyss. Fake IDs, fake colleges, one dead girl. And one caring younger brother desperate to see his sister again.

Lotham hadn’t been in a chatty mood when I’d called him. He’d been as confused as I was to learn that Gleeson C wasn’t a real college. Intrigued by the possibilities of the Tracfone receipt and phone number Emmanuel had discovered. And definitely mum on the subject of Deke’s last name, which I was already guessing wasn’t Samdi.

Lotham had been denied the warrant for the rec center’s computer, he’d volunteered grumpily. Not enough probable cause that the computers were connected to Livia’s murder, given her body had been found nine months after she’d last visited the place. He should be able to get a warrant for Angelique’s missing Tracfone, however, and yeah, they could absolutely try pinging it, let alone the data dump of text messages, incoming calls, et cetera. At this point, we could use a lucky break.

I’d ended the call with Lotham with the same tension we’d had at the beginning. Maybe Livia’s murder had taken its toll on both of us. Maybe we had taken a toll on us.

Shortly after six p.m., a familiar form walks through the door and I exhale a giant sigh of heartfelt relief. Charlie ambles up to the bar and takes a seat. I already have a glass of water waiting for him. “Coffee, food, nonalcoholic beer?”

“Viv working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll take a burger. Tell her it’s for me.” The man definitely has a twinkle in his eye. And I bet when I mention his name, Viv will have that same sparkle. Have to hand it to the woman, she has good taste in men.

I head to the kitchen to place the order. Sure enough, Viv positively preens. “You tell Charlie I got him covered.”

“Aren’t you married?”

“To the best man in the world, absolutely, honey. But it never hurts to look. YOLO, baby.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Don’t I know it. Speaking of which, where’s your handsome hunk this evening?”

“Probably sitting at his desk sulking. Apparently, he likes his strong, independent women less strong and less independent. Men.” I shrug.

“He’ll come around, sweet cheeks. The good ones always do.”

“Ah, but being the strong independent type, I’m not sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.”

“And more power to you. You give Charlie a hug for me. That man has the best arms.”

I don’t want to know how she knows that. I return to the bar with a cup of fresh coffee for Charlie, then check in with a couple of customers. Next lull, I plant myself across from him, arms folded, ears waiting.

“Sorry about Mrs. Samdi,” Charlie says. “I stopped by in person. Her son didn’t take it so well.”

“It’s okay. In a weird way, it worked out. J.J. tracked me down himself, told me some interesting stories of an older half brother named Deke, who apparently had connections in the counterfeiting world as well as a penchant for armed robbery.”

“Deke Alarie? You serious?”

“That’s his full name? And I’m being completely serious. Now fess up. What should I know?”

“Alarie’s a big name back in the day. French for ‘all power’ and, boy, did he live up to it. Cold bastard. If he decided he wanted what you had, or you were a threat to what he had . . .” Charlie shook his head. “Kind of guy who’d sell out his own mother to get ahead, that’s for sure. Maybe he did.”

“I imagine he had some equally cold associates?”

“Deke ran with a serious-shit kind of crowd. Kind of men you should have your detective friend look into. Not for you, little lady. Not for you.” Charlie’s deep voice is so serious, I’m almost tempted to listen. “Last I heard, Deke Alarie had just started some new business partnership, but then he got sent away for armed robbery, and that was that.”

“What did you hear about him and counterfeit bills?”

“Nothing. But if there was a gangster interested in getting involved in something that sophisticated . . . Yeah, Deke Alarie, I could see it.”

“So maybe his new business partners hooked him up?”

“Even gangsters have dreams, you know.”

I roll my eyes.

He gives me a wink. Then his expression sobers. “Any news on Angelique Badeau?”

“Nothing yet. With Livia murdered . . . I don’t know. Something’s clearly changed and it can’t bode well for Angelique.” I lean closer. “We’re pretty sure Livia and Angelique were selling fake IDs. Except, I can’t figure out how that would lead to kidnapping. Like you and I talked about, sure, there’s money in fakes, but these aren’t top-dollar forgeries.”

“DIY enterprise.”

“Exactly. So how did they get from that to being abducted? Holding two teenagers against their will . . . That’s high-risk stuff, and complicated logistics. Gotta involve more than a few people, meaning also a larger-scale enterprise. No longer DIY.”

“More like a gang?”

“Yeah. Which made me think of Livia’s brother J.J., except based on his reaction to his sister’s death, no way. Which leaves us with half brother Deke, plus a few of his associates.”

Charlie nods slowly. “Sounds about right.”

“But doing what, Charlie? Fake drinking IDs can’t be that big money. Like you said, fake passports, identity packages, hell, work visas, that all makes sense. But how do you get from good-enough driver’s licenses to that level of expertise?”

Charlie frowns, taps his coffee mug, frowns again. Viv rings from the kitchen. I head off to fetch Charlie’s burger, then get busy settling bills, refreshing drinks.

By the time I return, Charlie has an idea. “You need an expert.”

“Expert what?”

“Forger. Someone who can walk you through the logistics. That’s how you catch a criminal, right? What do they need? What are the issues? That kind of thing. Think like a forger.”

“I met with Livia’s AutoCAD teacher. He said the licenses would involve a computer and specialty printer, plus some expensive inks. Didn’t sound that complicated, or as if it would require tons of space.” I pause, consider. “Though definitely they have to be working out of somewhere. Maybe the same place the girls have been kept?” I have another thought. “Probably someplace local, as Angelique’s been spotted walking around Mattapan. Here’s the other thing: The girls had created a website for a college that doesn’t exist. And they’d gone into great detail. Photos of a campus, course offerings, a message from the president. The whole nine yards.”

Charlie takes a bite of his burger, chews thoughtfully. “Why a fake college?”

“That’s the question. From forged IDs to a fake college. I’m lost.”

More chewing, swallowing. I spy a customer trying to grab my attention. I get back to work. Charlie is finishing off his burger by the time I return. I pour him more water.

“There was this thing,” he starts. “Five, six years ago. Guy invented a company. Used it to issue work visas.”

“You mean his company manufactured forged visas?”

“Nah, his fake company produced paperwork that real people could use to apply for real visas. Guy got greedy, though. Soon enough, the powers that be got wise to a small firm needing hundreds of engineers. Especially when none of the foreigners applying for work had an engineering degree. Good while it lasted, though.”

I lean closer. “So, not forged visas, which is nearly impossible, but creating supporting documents from a nonexistent entity to apply for real visas.” I remember what Emmanuel had said about his sister, her drive to take additional courses online so that she could graduate from high school early and get into college as soon as possible. Which would earn her a student visa and secure her place in this country.

“Charlie, what about student visas? A fake college, to issue fake student visas?”

“Could be.”

“Wouldn’t someone notice? Aren’t there checks and balances for that kind of thing?”

Charlie shrugs. “Fake company eventually got shut down, but not before earning millions. System’s only as good as the time and energy the bureaucrats have to police it. If a cursory check shows that company or that college exists, who really has time to dig deeper? Not to mention, I hear rumors of kids entering with genuine J-1s from genuine schools. Once they’re in the country, however, who pays attention to where they go and what they do?”

“But their visas expire.”

“Which is an issue if they leave and reenter the country. But what if they stick around—say, with a new driver’s license?”

I get goose bumps then. What would be worth more money than fake IDs? What would be worth kidnapping two enterprising teen girls and holding them hostage? How about setting up a system to generate real student visas? I can even see Angelique’s personal interest in taking on such a project, given her immigration status, and her brother’s. Maybe that had made it sound like a good idea . . . before it wasn’t.

Had Livia involved Deke on her own, or had he approached her? I’m not sure it mattered. Deke, with his criminal partnerships, must’ve taken over the enterprise and run with it. Forcing his half sister and Angelique to work for them. Given the girls’ aptitudes in computer programming and design, this little enterprise could’ve gone on and on, growing in scope and size. From a fake college for student visas to a fake corporation for work visas, such as Charlie described. That revenue potential would be through the roof. Definitely worth the risk of holding two girls captive.

Except Livia was now dead.

Because having produced the templates, she wasn’t needed anymore? Or the stress of the situation had made her too unreliable? And what did her death mean for Angelique? Poor, problem-solving Angelique, desperately leaving us breadcrumbs, doing everything in her power to lead us to them.

Then late last night, climbing into a van to help dispose of her friend’s body.

Knowing none of her plans had been good enough.

Knowing she would be next.

“Thank you, Charlie.” I glance at my watch. Eight p.m. Way too early to be cutting out of work. But I don’t have a choice. There’s no way I can stand here, slinging drinks. Not with so much at stake. I need to move. I need to do. I hope Stoney will understand.

I untie the apron from around my waist. Charlie stands up at the bar.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” Maybe the BPD field office to have it out with Lotham. Or . . . “I’m going to head to the rec center.”

“This time of night?”

“It all started there. And all roads keep leading back there. I can’t put my finger on it, but that’s the place to be.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

I don’t argue. A hulking bodyguard is not a bad idea at all. Which leaves me one last task. I bolt back to Stoney’s office, where he’s pecking away at his ancient computer.

“Bye,” he says, without looking up.

“I have a lead.”

“Bye.”

“I’ll be back, I’m so sorry.”

Stoney finally glances at me. “Go,” he says.

So I do, Charlie in tow. We’ve barely stepped outside the bar when my phone rings. It’s Emmanuel and the boy sounds hysterical.