Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 3

All I know about this area is what I looked up prior to arrival. Mattapan is densely populated, more than thirty-five thousand people crammed into apartments, city housing, and so-called triple-deckers. The majority of the people are immigrants, which adds splashes of ethnic food and specialty hair salons. There are small pockets of Latin and Asian Americans, as well as an even smaller cluster of Caucasians.

Google Earth revealed some shocks of green space amid the mass of overcrowded streets—Harambee Park, the Franklin Park Zoo, and the Boston Nature Center. Not being accustomed to city life, I’d probably be more comfortable in those areas, but I can barely afford a single room with a hostile cat over a bar. An apartment with a view is out of the question.

My primary concern is the area’s crime stats. Half a dozen stabbings a week, not to mention the monthly shootings and annual homicide rate. Gang activity mostly, but predators are predators, and as a middle-aged woman I’m not particularly intimidating.

The best I can do, as I start navigating the confusing mishmash of city streets, is utilize basic personal safety rules. One, I don’t carry anything of value. No smartphone, no electronics, no purse. I have the world’s stupidest Tracfone, which is one of the reasons I’m old-school when it comes to research and navigation. In lieu of a purse, I have my driver’s license and a couple of bills jammed deep into my front pocket. Some kid wants to demand all my worldly goods, have it. You can’t take from someone things she gave up a long time ago.

Tucked into my jacket pocket is a red rape whistle, because there are worse things than muggings. I also wear stainless-steel “tactical clips” in my hair. Each boasts tiny saw teeth, a wrench, a ruler, and a minuscule screwdriver for the low, low price of $3.99. I have no idea if hair clips can really be that effective and hope I never have to find out.

Finally, I have my necklace, a plain gold cross, picked up at a pawn shop years ago and now worn tucked under my shirt. Again, sometimes the simplest things remain the best deterrent.

Another trick—attach myself to others when possible. Predators prefer the lone game, so don’t look too lonely.

This time of evening, that strategy is easy to accomplish. Five p.m., buses are screeching to a stop, disgorging piles of weary locals grateful to be heading home. The sun is still out but lower in the sky, a fall breeze starting to kick up, carrying with it the stench of diesel, grime, and human sweat.

I catch the occasional whiff of fried food and savory spices. My stomach rumbles again. I’ve never eaten Haitian food. Judging by the smell, however, I’m looking forward to trying it.

For now, I keep hoofing it. I don’t really understand Boston’s mass transit yet and I have at least a mile to cover, from Stoney’s place to the side street where Angelique’s aunt lives. Everywhere I look are tired buildings and worn faces. Bit by bit, I start to parse it out. The groups of teens with thousand-yard stares, peering out sullenly from beneath their hooded sweatshirts. The wide streets jammed with brake lights and blaring horns. Intermittent booms of music, from reggae to rap, blasting out of various vehicles. A crowd of older Black men, probably returning from a local construction project given the dust on their clothes, laugh and clap one another on the back, grateful for the end of the workday.

Ahead of me, another city bus screeches to a halt. This time a group of Black women in pink hospital scrubs and bright-colored headscarves disembark. Local healthcare workers. I fall in step behind the last member of the line as they stream forward into the night. The woman directly in front of me notices the slowing of my gait as I slide in behind her. She nods once in acknowledgment of my presence. I’m no threat to her, and she clearly recognizes my strategy. Safety in numbers.

I think of this often, drifting from community to community, always being the stranger and never the neighbor. People all over really are the same. They want to fall in love. They’re glad to survive each day. They pray their children will have a better life than they did. These truths bind us. At least I like to think so.

The sun sinks lower but the street grows brighter: more car lights, shop lights, streetlamps. My lead companion peels off to the right with a parting nod. I return the gesture, plodding forward on my own.

At the end of the next block, I have to pull out my printed map. I hate doing that in the open, as it marks me as lost, and even now I can feel gazes boring into my back.

I wasn’t lying to Stoney when I told him all I had to rely on was my quick wit. Which, interestingly enough, can be very useful when dealing with people above the age of twenty-five, but completely irrelevant to anyone younger.

I didn’t grow up in a city. Nor as a young girl did I ever picture myself doing this kind of work. I was raised in a small town in Northern California. My father was a drunk. As an adult looking back, I came to recognize his addiction as I learned to fight my own. But for most of my childhood, I associated my father with silly adventures and sloppy smiles, as well as the smell of beer.

My mother was the intense one. Worked two jobs, the first as a secretary in a law firm, the second doing the books for mom-and-pop businesses. I don’t remember her smiling, or playing, or even stopping long enough to give me a hug. She got up early and worked late, and in her brief moments at home, mostly gritted her teeth at the dishes my father hadn’t done, the meals that hadn’t been cooked, the dirty clothes that hadn’t been washed.

I think my father loved my mother for her fierceness, and she loved him for his sense of fun. Until they didn’t.

I ran around outside a lot. Through woods and scrub brush and winding streams. In my childhood we didn’t have Amber Alerts or stranger danger. Even seven-year-olds felt free to dash out their front doors and ride their bikes for miles. I had friends who were latchkey by nine because why not? We didn’t worry. We just were.

I don’t think any of us realized that was a magical moment future kids would never get to experience. Certainly, we didn’t understand what bad things lurked out there. Until one of my classmates went missing in high school. Then another girl from the town over. And four more girls quickly after that.

The police caught the killer when I was twenty-five. By then I’d moved down to L.A. with no real plan other than to get the hell out of small-town life and party like a rock star. Turned out I was damn good at the partying part. And pretty enough for others to buy my drinks, my meals, maybe even a new dress or two.

I’d like to say those were my free spirit days, but the truth is, I don’t really remember them. It was a rush of drugs and booze and sex, and that I’m alive at all . . .

Paul. He saved me. At least until I grew strong enough to save myself.

House, white picket fence, suburban bliss.

Funny, the things you can grow up not wanting, then suddenly crave with single-minded obsession.

Funnier still, the things you can end up having only to realize you’d been right the first time.

But I loved Paul. I still love him. Even now.

I arrive at my targeted block, which peels off the main road in a sharp diagonal. Definitely no grid system here. Instead, the streets come together, then explode in a crazy hub-and-spoke system. This is not going to be one of those places I learn to navigate quickly or easily. My best guess, weeks from now I’ll still feel exactly as dazed and confused as I do at this moment. Maybe Boston neighborhoods aren’t meant to be understood. You either know where you are, or you don’t. I definitely don’t.

Now, the rows of squat, brick commercial buildings are replaced by a wall of triple-deckers, wedged shoulder to shoulder like a line of grumpy old men. I make out chain-link fences, dirt patch yards, and sagging front steps that delineate each residence. Some have new vinyl siding in shades of pale blue and butter yellow. Others appear one strong breeze from total collapse. Mattapan has some of the last affordable housing in the city for a reason.

Fifth home down the block, with bay windows and a sturdier-looking front porch. This is it. I double check the house number to be sure, then note the light glowing from the second-floor apartment that is listed as belonging to Angelique Badeau’s aunt.

This is the moment it becomes real. Where I go from being well-intentioned to being fully committed. I don’t know what will happen next. A tentative welcome, a harsh refusal. A wailing torrent of desperate grief, or steely-eyed suspicion. I’ve experienced it all, and it never gets any less nerve-racking.

From here on out, my job is to listen, accept, adapt.

And hope, really, truly hope, they don’t hate me too much.

Lani Whitehorse’s grandmother hugged me in the end, though the tribal council pointedly gave me their backs.

I remind myself I’m good at what I do.

I swear to myself that I will make a difference.

I think, uneasily, that like any addict, lying is what I do best.

I head up the front steps.

On the front porch, I encounter six buzzers, meaning the triple-decker hasn’t been carved up only by level, but within each floor as well. Beneath the buzzers is a line of black-painted mailboxes, each one locked tight. It’s a simple but efficient system for the apartment dwellers. I try the front door just in case but am not surprised to find it bolted tight. Next, I press the first few ringers, prepared to announce myself as delivery and see if I can get lucky, but no one answers.

Which leaves me with the direct approach. I hit 2B. After a moment, a male voice, younger, higher, answers. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Guerline Violette.”

“She know you?”

“I’m here regarding Angelique.”

Pause. Angelique has a younger brother, Emmanuel, also a teen. I would guess this is him, particularly as his tone is already defensive with an edge of sullen. He sounds like someone whose been subjected to too many experts and well-wishers and been disappointed by all of them.

“You a reporter?” he demands now.

“No.”

“Cop?”

“No.”

“My aunt’s busy.”

“I’m here to help.”

“We heard that before.” I can practically feel the eye roll across the intercom. Definitely a teen.

“My time is free and I’m experienced.”

“Whatdya mean?”

“If I can talk to Guerline, I’d be happy to explain in person.”

Another pause. Then a female voice takes over the intercom.

“Who are you and why are you bothering us?” Guerline’s voice ripples with hints of sea and sand. Her niece and nephew immigrated to Boston as young children a decade ago, along with tens of thousands of other Haitians after Port-au-Prince was nearly flattened by an earthquake. Emmanuel has grown up in Boston and sounds it. But his aunt has retained the music of her native island.

“My name is Frankie Elkin. I’m an expert in missing persons. I’ve been following your niece’s disappearance and I believe I can help.”

“You are a reporter, yes?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t work for any news agencies or reporting outlets. My only interest is finding Angelique and bringing her home.”

“Why?”

The question is not defensive, but quiet. It tears at me, the amount of weariness in that single word.

I wish I had an answer for her. Something simple like Because, or poignant, such as Every child deserves to be found, or defiant, like Why not? But the truth is, she’s probably heard it all by now. A whole torrent of words and reasons. Instead of being given the one thing she wants most: answers.

The silence grows. I should attempt some line of argument, but nothing persuasive comes to mind. Then, a noise from inside the building. Stairs creaking as a light weight rapidly descends. Another occupant or . . .

The click of the bolt lock snapping back. The front door cracks open and I find myself face to face with a Haitian teenager. Tall, gangly, close-cropped dark hair and deep brown eyes a perfect match with his sister’s. He takes a second to look me over through the slit of the open door, features as wary now as his voice had been earlier.

He turns, already dropping hold of the door. It’s up to me to grab the edge, push through, and follow him up ancient wooden stairs to the second floor.

Guerline Violette stands in the middle of a cramped living room, her arms crossed over her formidable figure. I peg her age somewhere between forty and fifty, but her smooth, dark skin and classic features make it hard to determine. She’s clad in purple scrubs seamed with orange trim and has bright green Crocs on her feet. She’s a daunting woman, especially with her hair pulled into a thick bun on top of her head, calling attention to her high cheekbones and handsome brow. But upon closer inspection I spy the purple smudges of long nights and fearful days that bruise her eyes. She watches my approach with a mix of suspicion and dread. I can’t say that I blame her.

Emmanuel closes the door behind me, then comes over to stand awkwardly by his aunt. At thirteen, he’s already my height, with the slender build of a kid who’s recently undergone a growth spurt. In contrast to his aunt’s colorful ensemble, Emmanuel is wearing the official uniform of teen males everywhere—sneaks, jeans, and a worn T-shirt. He looks young, clean-cut, and determined. The man in the family, even if it scares him. These are the kind of cases that break my heart.

Belatedly I stick out my hand. Guerline clasps it briefly, more out of politeness than welcome. The one-bedroom apartment houses three people and looks it. Guerline gestures to the cramped family room that clearly serves as a common room, bedroom, and dining room all rolled into one. What the room lacks in space it makes up for in color. Yellow walls, an overstuffed red velvet chair, a sofa piled with bright-patterned sleeping quilts, all bleeding into turquoise kitchen cabinets to the right.

I go with the red chair, positioned in front of the window. On the wall beside me is a high wooden shelf bearing photos of gold-framed saints, some religious icons, and a single dangling rosary. Below it, running along first the tall bureau, then the long cabinet holding the TV, is a riot of green houseplants, adding to the room’s ambience. Between a pocket of green leaves, I spy a discreet cluster of white candles, arranged in a semicircle with a bowl of water and fresh-cut flowers before them. Angelique’s framed photo, the same shyly smiling picture used in the missing persons flyers, is positioned next to candles.

Guerline catches me eyeing the makeshift altar, and I quickly look away. According to what I’ve read, many Haitians practice a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, but it’s not something I know much about.

I turn my attention to the other knickknacks littering the room. A clear baby food jar filled with sand—a touch of Guerline’s island home? Then I spot the requisite school photo of Emmanuel, his teeth a flash of white. Next to it a smaller picture of an adult female, the colors faded, the background hard to make out. The woman’s smile is familiar, however. If I had to guess—Emmanuel and Angelique’s mother, who still lives in Haiti. Finally, I spot a photo of a graying couple, framed by palm trees. Guerline and her sister’s parents, maybe taken outside their home before the earthquake destroyed it.

“You say you can help, yes?” Guerline states, moving to the sofa, her hand resting on the pile of quilts. Emmanuel follows closely behind. He is obviously protective of his aunt. I wonder if he was protective of his older sister, too, or if it was her disappearance that made him realize the need to guard his loved ones.

“My name is Frankie Elkin,” I repeat for both of them. “I travel all around the country, handling cases just like your niece’s.”

Guerline frowns, trying to absorb what I said.

“You are a private investigator?” she asks at last in her French-lilted English.

“I am not a licensed PI. I’m a volunteer.” I’m never sure how to explain this part. “There are actually quite a few people like me, laypersons who are dedicated to assisting in missing persons investigations. From search dog handlers to pilots to boots on the ground. There are organizations, missing persons boards where we follow cases like your niece’s.”

Guerline is frowning. “My Angelique . . . She is on some message board?”

“On the internet, matant,” Emmanuel murmurs at her shoulder. “She’s talking about reading details on the internet.”

I nod. “According to reports, Angelique left school Friday, November fifth. At three fifteen p.m. No one has seen her since.”

“The police looked and looked,” Guerline assures me, her fingers twisting absently. “Ricardo, our community officer. He promised me they would bring my Angel home. But now, it has been many months since there has been any news.”

“They found her backpack.”

“Yes. Under a bush on school grounds.”

“The backpack contained her cell phone, her school books, and the outfit she’d worn to school that day?”

Guerline nods. I glance at Emmanuel, wondering if he knew his sister had packed a change of clothes, that she must have been planning something that Friday afternoon. But his face remains perfectly expressionless.

“No sign of violence?” I prod, because not all details are made public.

Guerline shakes her head. “Nothing . . . They found nothing. Even on her phone . . . Ricardo tells me they can read the texts, see the phone calls. But there is nothing saying where she was going, what she might be doing. Her friends, they swear they don’t know anything. LiLi went to school. Then she was to come home, start dinner. Except . . .”

Guerline looks as lost now as she must have felt eleven months ago. Her hands tremble. She clasps them tight, a model of grace, even in her grief.

“Did Angelique have close friends?” I push.

“Kyra and Marjolie. Good girls, too.” But I catch an edge of hesitancy in the last statement, which intrigues me.

“Boyfriends?”

“LiLi keeps to herself. No boys, parties, those sorts of worries. She is a very good girl. A caring sister, a loving niece.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Violette. Had she been having issues with anyone lately? Another classmate, teacher, coach?”

Guerline shakes her head. Emmanuel fixes his gaze on the floor with studied avoidance.

More questions for me to ask later.

“Girl drama?” I try one last time. “You know how it can be with teenagers. Bestie today, archenemy tomorrow.”

“Not my Angelique. She has a good head on her shoulders, that one. She wants college. A future. You understand.”

Guerline gazes at me directly and I get it. Angelique didn’t want to return to Haiti. She wanted to get into college and hopefully be granted a student visa so she could remain in this country with all its opportunities.

“I am a CNA,” Guerline tells me softly. “Nursing is a good job. But Angel, one day she will be a doctor. Maybe a surgeon. She is that smart. This is why my sister sent her children to me, though it hurts her heart for her babies to grow up so far away. They must have hope. Our beautiful Haiti . . . The earthquake took away too much, and rebuilding is slow.”

Emmanuel clasps his aunt’s shoulder.

“Do the police have any leads, maybe a person of interest?” I press.

Guerline shakes her head.

“Theories? Angelique left willing, unwilling?”

“She would never go willingly,” Guerline informs me flatly. She crosses her arms over her broad purple-clad chest and takes on the slightly defiant look I already recognize from her nephew.

I don’t push it. There’s no point in arguing with a family’s beliefs or perspectives. They have to get through each day, which makes truth a fickle companion.

“How can you help?” Emmanuel speaks up abruptly. His chin’s up, also challenging me. “What can you do that the police didn’t?”

“I’m sure the police did a fine job,” I supply soothingly, though I’m not sure about that at all. “Bear in mind, however, that even the best detectives have dozens of cases that demand their attention. Especially now, after so much time has passed. Whereas for someone like me, your sister is my sole focus. I’m here to find her, and I won’t leave until I do.”

“You’re living here, in this neighborhood?”

“I took a room above Stoney’s.”

The boy can’t hide the look of surprise across his face, followed almost immediately by a scowl. “You’re crazy.”

Guerline gives her nephew’s shoulder a light smack. “Don’t insult our guest.”

“Come on. Look at her, matant. She’s not police, she’s not local, she’s not . . .”

One of us, I mentally fill in for him.

“No one is going to talk to her,” Emmanuel continues relentlessly. “She will piss people off. How does that bring my sister back?”

His voice raises stridently at the end, his anger a testimony to his grief. I can tell his aunt understands, just as she can tell I understand. Briefly, we are bonded. Two older, wiser women sorry for the pain the world is causing our children.

“I’m happy you say you’re satisfied with the police efforts,” I offer. “The truth remains, it’s been nearly a year. The police have no new leads or you would’ve heard about them. So even if you don’t like me or don’t understand me . . . What do you have to lose?” I stare Emmanuel in the eye, as he seems the most hostile. “You want your sister back. I want to help. Why not use me?”

Emmanuel doesn’t have an answer for this; judging from his expression, however, he still isn’t convinced. His aunt, though, is slowly nodding. I wouldn’t say she believes in me either, but she’s clearly a practical woman. Forged by a childhood of deprivation and an adulthood of uncertainty, she appears moved by my logic.

Deep sorrow brackets her eyes. Eleven months later, she’s getting desperate. She doesn’t share it with Emmanuel; they are both staying strong for each other. Now I’m here, upsetting their fragile ecosystem by offering hope. Emmanuel isn’t ready, but Aunt Guerline knows better than to let it go.

Securing permission is not always this easy. I’ve been thrown out of homes. Had beer bottles tossed at my head, vicious threats spewed in my face. For some, rage is easier to handle. And many families do have secrets to hide.

I don’t think Guerline is one of those people. Emmanuel . . . He knows more than he’s saying, I’d bet. But I’d also bet he thinks he’s protecting his sister with his silence, meaning my real job will be convincing him otherwise.

I rise. I don’t want to overwhelm Guerline or alienate Emmanuel. Not when I can tell both truly want answers.

I focus on Guerline. “Ricardo, the community officer. Can you give me his information and let him know I’ll be in touch? Or I can give you mine to pass along to him if you prefer?”

Guerline nods, and I scribble down the number to my Tracfone.

“If you could call Angelique’s school, give permission for the principal or a school counselor to speak with me?”

Another faint nod.

“I’m living above Stoney’s,” I repeat now, seeing the exhaustion starting to take over. “I also work there several nights a week. If you need to reach me in person, please feel free to find me there. I am not just here for Angelique but also for you.”

Emmanuel mutters something sardonic under his breath. But Guerline grasps my hand firmly this time. I am unexpected and unfamiliar to her, but she is a woman with nothing to lose.

This is how most cases start. With a bubble of desperate hope and tentative trust. Where things go from here, how Guerline and Emmanuel might view me months from now . . .

Emmanuel walks me back downstairs. He doesn’t speak a word, relying on the rigid set of his shoulders to radiate disapproval.

“You love Angelique,” I state softly when we reach the lobby. “She’s a good older sister. She looks out for you.”

He glares at me, but I see a bright sheen in his eyes. The pain he’s trying hard not to show.

“You really done this before?” he asks roughly.

“Many times.”

“How many people have you actually found?”

“Fourteen.”

He purses his lips, clearly taken aback by that number.

“Good night, Emmanuel. And if you think of anything I should know.” I stick out my hand. This time he takes it.

Then I exit the triple, out into the crisp fall night, where the sun has set. Bright lights wink in the distance. But on this block no streetlights are working. Not the best idea for a lone woman to be walking around after dark, but I hardly have a choice.

I square my shoulders and head briskly back toward Stoney’s, grateful it hadn’t occurred to Emmanuel to ask the next logical question:

Not just how many people I’d found but how many people I’d brought home alive.

None.

At least, not yet.