Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

“More like for cruising around Roxbury handing out free ice cream to kids. We can’t be arrogant, incompetent authority figures all the time.”

“I didn’t say you were incompetent. Now arrogant, on the other hand . . .”

He sighs, pops open the passenger-side door for me, but I shake my head.

“Beautiful day like this, I think I’ll walk.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

“So I’ve heard. Still, a pretty afternoon and given the rest of my evening will be spent in a dank bar . . .”

He concedes the point, leaving his vehicle to fall in step beside me. “We went through that entire apartment with a fine-toothed comb,” he warns me.

“I know.”

“Even brought in search dogs.” He emphasizes the word enough for me to understand he means drug-sniffing canines. Yet another detail he most likely never told the family. I think Angelique Badeau’s case still keeps him up at night, and this afternoon’s revelation didn’t help.

“What do you think of Angelique’s message?” I ask him. “ Help us. Clearly, it implies there’s more than just her safety at stake. But as Angelique’s family pointed out, all of her friends are accounted for. So who is the us ?”

Lotham doesn’t speak right away. His expression is troubled. “For the record, Angelique Badeau is our only active missing persons case at this time. So even looking beyond one teenage girl’s social circle . . .” He shrugs.

In other words, there’s not an immediate or obvious connection between Angelique and other possible victims. Interesting.

“Could be she’s being abducted and held with a group of runaways,” I brainstorm out loud. “Or, given the prevalence of human trafficking, other girls, immigrants who were smuggled into the country to be put to work. That’s an entire victim group that would never even cross investigative radar screens until it’s too late. Though how Angelique became part of such an operation, what exactly she stumbled into . . .” My voice trails off. This is all purely speculation. At the end of the day, Angelique’s ominous message changes everything—and nothing.

The investigation remains as it’s always been—stuck. Lacking a cohesive theory. A fifteen-year-old girl disappeared after school. How, why, where? The possibilities are endless. Mostly, we now have proof that Angelique is alive. Though if she was driven to risk delivering a coded message at this stage of the game, her fate—and those of the mysterious us —could very well be hanging by a thread.

“I don’t know what I’ll find when I search the apartment,” I say at last. “Mostly, I’m just hoping I find something .”

Lotham nods as if this makes perfect sense. We lapse into silence, easily covering block after block.

I like walking beside him. The comfort of his larger bulk, the ease of his stride. People move over slightly on the sidewalk, though that might be in deference to him being a cop as much as anything else. He is very present, and several brightly dressed women watch him out of the corner of their eyes as he passes.

“Football or baseball?” I ask him now, because I can’t decide.

“Neither.”

I chew my lower lip, then realize I’ve been stupid. The broken nose, battered features. “Boxing,” I state.

“I’ve been known to spend some time in the ring.”

“Is that when someone went Mike Tyson on your ear?”

“That’s from my older brother when we were kids. We fought a lot. Just, you know, to have something to do.”

“How many brothers?”

“Three.”

“Good God, your poor mom.”

“Exactly.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Foxborough.”

“Is that around here?”

“South of the city. My parents were teachers. My mom taught English, my father was the classic gym instructor by day, school coach by night. He was at a middle school, so he coached across the board, football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. But his first love was boxing; he took my brothers and me to the gym on the weekends. Your turn.”

“Grew up West Coast. Mom worked hard, Dad drank hard. Both are now dead.”

He stares at me hard enough as we pause at a crosswalk that I finally add: “Car accident. The other vehicle was at fault, which was a total shocker given my father’s drinking and my mother’s rage. The driver drifted over the center line, hit them head on. They died instantly. It’s funny, my parents had a terrible marriage. I don’t remember either of them ever being happy. And yet the fact they died together brings me comfort.”

He nods in understanding.

“Military,” I deduce next, inspecting his haircut. “Possibly army, but I’m thinking with those looks, former Marine.”

“No such thing as a former Marine,” he says, answering my question. “Post high school?” he quizzes me.

“Excelled at partying. I spend a lot of time in church basements now.”

“But you work in a bar.”

“Being around booze isn’t such a big deal for me. And bartending is my only life skill.”

“You don’t have a home. Or a husband, or kids. You just travel all around doing . . . this.”

“Inserting myself into other people’s problems?”

“Exactly.”

“Definitely growing on you. And your deal? Wife, kid, white picket fence?”

“My job is a demanding enough spouse, and my nieces and nephews keep me busy.”

“You’re the favorite uncle, aren’t you? Swoop in, hop them up on video games, sugar them up with soda, then ride off into the sunset.”

“Guilty as charged.” He arches a brow. My turn. Everyone has someone, don’t they?

“Ghosts of Christmas past,” I tell him lightly, all I’m going to say on the subject. “Okay, bonus round: In this day and age of racial tension, gender fluidity, and political polarization, how do you most define yourself?”

This earns me serious contemplation. After a moment: “Black male. Not African American because, according to my mother, there’s more in the mix, including Portuguese, though I don’t know any more about that culture than Africa. Definitely, I’m a Boston cop. Not southern, not West Coast, purely New England. After that . . . good son, amazing uncle. And you? White, female, heterosexual . . . ?”

“Fishing, are you?” My turn to tease, then become serious. “Demographically speaking, I am white, female, heterosexual, agnostic, progressive, Californian. But first and foremost, I’m an addict. Which has taught me enough of my own weaknesses to be more understanding of others.”

“And this is why strangers magically talk to you?”

“Maybe I’m just that good a listener.”

We’ve arrived at the Badeaus’ apartment. Lotham pauses before climbing up the front steps. He has a piece of white lint on his indigo tie. I have to repress the urge to reach out and flick it off. He defines himself as a Black male Boston cop, but to me he is a port in the storm, whether he wants to be or not.

I would like to step into the silence that surrounds him. Lay my head against his shoulder. Discover if his stillness could seep into my own wild, restless being.

I find myself leaning closer.

“Why do you do this?” he asks me softly, dark gaze pinning my own.

“I have no idea.”

“What is it you’re looking for?”

“The truth.”

“Even if it’s ugly?”

“It’s always ugly.”

“Try not to hurt the family too much,” he murmurs.

And I have to smile, because I understand completely. Missing persons cases . . .

I turn and climb the front steps. After another moment, he follows.

Guerline is at the stove when Emmanuel escorts us in, throwing a flour-dusted drumstick into the pan of sizzling oil. The spattering drumstick is quickly followed by four more.