Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

Detective Lotham takes a sip of his RumChata. When he sets it down and exhales, his breath smells like cinnamon.

He has dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and battered features. His nose has definitely been broken, probably a couple of times, and he’s missing a piece of his ear, as if someone took a bite out of it. There’s a story there, no doubt. I like that about his face. That it’s a road map of been there, done that. It’s interesting.

In my drinking days, I devoted my share of nights to drunken hookups. Even back then, it wasn’t about the sex for me, which was generally a clumsy and forgettable affair. I liked the quiet right after. When neither of us were speaking. Just the sound of chests heaving, heartbeats slowing. That short, fleeting moment that occurs right before regret. When you can smell the sweat on your body, now mixing with someone else’s, and wonder again how you can remain so disconnected. Like it wasn’t your arms, wasn’t your legs, was never your body to begin with.

I wouldn’t invite a man like Detective Lotham up to my room for sex. But even now, I wouldn’t mind tracing the line of his chewed-up ear, his weathered jawline.

I stand, putting distance between us, then pour myself a glass of water and down it.

“I called the names you gave O’Shaughnessy,” Lotham offers up casually.

“And?”

“Wouldn’t say they sang your praises, but it does sound like you’re legit. I mean, as legit as an inexperienced, untrained civilian can be.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“No seeking of financial reward, or attention from the press.”

I shudder automatically. “I don’t care for the press.”

Lotham nods before he can stop himself, then scowls, as if I tricked him in to having something in common with me.

“Are you a good detective?” I ask Lotham.

He doesn’t take the bait.

“I think you are. You and the BPD have all the bells and whistles you could ask for. Not to mention access to way more information than I can get. For example, I had to interview Marjolie and Kyra to learn if Angelique had a boyfriend. While you probably know every detail from dumping Angelique’s phone, searching her laptop, surfing her social media. And yet you still stopped by tonight to learn what her two friends told me. Interesting.”

I push away. Drift down the bar to take a new drink order, settle a bill.

When I return, Detective Lotham has sipped infinitesimally more of his drink. This time, he doesn’t bother with pretenses.

“What did Marjolie and Kyra have to say?”

“I’ll show you mine, you show me yours?”

One arched bushy brow.

“Let’s both pretend that means yes.” I plant my elbows on the countertop. “Something changed in Angelique’s life the summer before she disappeared. She returned to school more . . . self-possessed, distant, distracted. Kyra thinks a boy, and serious enough to be sexual. Marjolie disagrees, but mostly because it hurts her feelings to think her bestie kept such a secret.”

“How long did you talk to them?”

“Five, eight minutes before lunch break was over.”

“And they told you about their friend’s sex life?”

“Think of it as girl talk. See, a civilian investigator isn’t so bad.”

Lotham takes a pointed slurp of his drink.

My turn: “I’m sure you have copies of Angelique’s text messages, but what about Snapchat? That’s what most teens use for communicating away from prying parental eyes. I imagine they think it’s covert, disappearing messages and all that. But is it? Can you recover a message that vanishes the moment it’s read?”

“The police can get Snapchat info.”

“How?”

“The messages pass through the closest server, the server captures the data.”

“But how do you know which servers to access when people use their phones walking all over the place?”

“It’s never a bad idea to start with the areas closest to home, school, and work. Won’t get everything, but will get enough.”

“What about messages sent in an app? You know, utilizing Instagram or some of the specialized messaging apps?”

“That’s what search warrants are for.”

I nod. Makes sense. For every new medium of communication comes a new way to capture that form of communication. “All right. Let’s say it’s been, I don’t know, eleven months since an investigation first started. By now you have your search warrant results, server data, cell phone dump.”

“Unless it involves something being unlocked by Apple. In which case we’re still in court.”

I smile. “Man, you’re a pain in the ass. Tell me, did all this new information scored by the search warrants and recovered from miscellaneous servers confirm your initial theory of the case, or alter it completely?” I look him in the eye. “Do you still think Angelique was changing clothes Friday night to meet a mystery lover?”

Lotham’s turn to smile. He sips his drink.

He’s not going to answer that question and we both know it. It’s okay. Whether he intended or not, he’s done me a favor, as just knowing what information is out there is half the battle. Some of the reports received by the police I can request copies of through the Freedom of Information Act, things like that. In this case, that probably won’t work. But I can also ask Angelique’s aunt Guerline if she’d be willing to ask for copies. Most families have no idea what the police have been doing behind the scenes and are frustrated about being left in the dark. Meaning my suggestion that they ask for a specific document almost always leads to instant results, and yet more cops who hate me.

“You’re thinking boyfriend,” I say now. “I can tell by the look on your face that what Kyra and Marjolie told me wasn’t news. You probably already read the messages, buzzed through the photos. Good lord, the hour after hour of teen drama you must’ve had to wade through. Kids keep everything on their phone.”

I pause for dramatic effect. “Except not Angelique. That phone in her bag wasn’t her real cell. She’s got a backup, probably a cheap burner. Where her real life happens, which is why she was comfortable leaving her parentally approved model behind.”

In front of me, Lotham thins his lips, flares his nostrils. I’ve been working on the thought all afternoon. Judging by Lotham’s expression, I’m right. But where does that leave us?

I have a second thought. Sadder, more sobering. Why Detective Lotham is really here. Because he gets it, too, that nearly a year later he’s no closer to the truth. And he’s troubled by that—both by what he’s seen and by what he can’t see. He doesn’t want me getting involved, no detective wants that. But at the same time . . . What if my blundering jars something loose?

Detective Lotham doesn’t approve of me. But he’s also desperate. And like any good detective, he knows he doesn’t have to like me to use me as a resource.

I push away from the bar again, nodding at the customer trying to get my attention. While I’m up and at it, I deliver Viv’s burgers to the flirty trio, noticing all three burgers are topped with her special sauce—family connections paying off. I wipe down two recently vacated tables. Scrubbing the surface with my fraying dishtowel gives me more time to think.

It’s after eleven now. Only half a dozen customers and forty-five minutes left till closing. I return to the bar and my position across from Lotham.

“Officer O’Shaughnessy was warning me about the gang activity in this area, dozens of them willing to kill over a single block of real estate. I did some reading of my own, you know, before I waded inexperienced and untrained into the lions’ den. There was a local case a few years back. A gang needed to lure out a rival in order to kill him. But their faces, their girlfriends, were too well known. So they recruited a new girl with no history of gang activity—had one of the females befriend her. Couple of months later, at her new friend’s request, that girl invites the rival to meet her at the park for a date. He shows up . . . Further statistics ensue.”