Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

One last try. I’m fifteen. I’ve met a female friend . . . boyfriend . . . exciting stranger . . . I am . . .

I don’t know what Angelique was into, that’s the whole problem. But I know one thing she had—a second phone. Which she would’ve had to hide from her aunt and brother. But would want to check frequently . . .

I twist around. There’s nothing tucked in the sofa cushions. Nor taped beneath the coffee table, nor under the sofa.

I lean closer to the nightstand, snapping on the brightly colored lamp, and then—just like that—I know. Her spot on the sofa. The way she sat, not leaning forward or slouching down, but angling toward the wall.

Better light to read by, I’d thought. But maybe, it was just plain better light.

Now I reach up and snap off the bulb. Then I pick up the entire lamp, with its large ceramic base covered in checks of red, purples, and turquoise. When I shake it, there’s no rattling sound or sense of movement. But the weight of it, so solid, so heavy. I feel beneath it until my fingers close around the large bolt that holds the whole thing together. I don’t need a tool. The bolt is already loose, waiting.

I twist the nut. I slowly pull off the base. And just like that, banded rolls of bills go thumping out on to the floor. One two three four five six. Not hundreds of dollars, but thousands in tightly bundled cash.

A screech at the kitchen table as Emmanuel shoves back his chair. A terrible gasp from Guerline, hand flying to her mouth.

Detective Lotham appears in the doorway.

I shake out three more rolls. We all watch them roll across the rug. Thousands and thousands of dollars in cold, hard cash. Way more money than any teenager could have accrued by legal means.

Guerline places her head in her hands and starts to cry.

The happy hour crowd is firmly entrenched by the time I return to Stoney’s pub. I grab an apron, wash my hands, and get straight to work banging out beer and running plates of food.

My mind keeps returning to the rolls of cash hidden in Angelique’s lamp. When I left, Detective Lotham was bagging the evidence. The fact that Guerline and Emmanuel weren’t protesting his removal of large sums of money from their humble apartment confirmed that the money wasn’t theirs and the implications troubling.

Not being an official investigator type, I can only guess what kind of forensic tests will be conducted on the cash. Fingerprinting, for sure. My understanding is that new bills can often yield useful prints. Anything in circulation too long, however, has been touched by too many greasy hands, leaving behind a mess of smudged partials.

They’d test each bill for chemical residue. Traces of drugs. Maybe some cool random mold that could only be found in one basement in all of Boston. Or not.

I’d read about a case where the serial numbers on the bills were traced to a particular ATM, which allowed the police to pull video and identify the person who withdrew the funds. That would be great. Given how tightly bound the money was, however, I don’t have an impression of crispness, consecutive serial numbers, or, really, any useful information.

It looked like rolls of hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars per bundle. Making the total stash worth tens of thousands. What in the world could a teenage girl be doing to earn that kind of money?

Prostitution is the first thought that comes to mind. And would fit with an overall story line of human trafficking. But I certainly hadn’t seen any sign of sexy clothes or paraphernalia. Let alone, when? Angelique shared her sleeping quarters with her brother. If she was sneaking out, surely he’d be sharing those details by now. Not to mention tens of thousands is a lot of money for that scenario. No pimp wants the hired help to achieve financial independence.

“Umm, lady, you gonna keep pouring that beer?”

A voice jolts me from my reverie. Sure enough, I’ve topped off the glass and am now gushing foam down the sides. I flush, knock off the tap, deliver the beverage.

When I return, Stoney looks like he’s wondering if no help might be better than mine. Fair enough.

“Illegal income,” I tell him. “What are the local options?”

He appears to take my inquiry seriously as he stacks dirty glasses on a tray for delivery to the kitchen. “Drugs.”

“No sign of product, plus narc dogs would’ve sniffed out the cash if it had been in contact with meth, dope, whatever.” I line up four half glasses, toss in ice, start doling out rum.

Stoney doesn’t question this statement. “Sex.”

“Possible but not probable.”

“Stolen goods.”

Hadn’t thought of that. I top the rum with Coke, then swing back around the bar to deliver the drinks to the waiting table. When I return, Stoney has finished with the dirty glasses and is now ringing up an order for a waiting patron.

“What kind of stolen goods?” I ask him.

“Electronics. Cell phones. Guns.”

“Not sure our girl has that skill set or resources. She’s the studious type. Wants to be a doctor when she grows up.” Viv appears from the kitchen, one of her rare appearances, and hands me three plates. I shoot them to the end of the bar, picking up an order for a pitcher of beer on my way back.

“Sell off a kidney?” Stoney asks next.

“Think the family would’ve noticed.” I go to work filling the pitcher. I could ask about any recent surgeries. Maybe Angelique had suffered appendicitis that wasn’t really appendicitis? Or had tonsils that weren’t really her tonsils removed? Seems far-fetched, however, that she could pull off such a ruse in such tight quarters.

“Credit card fraud,” Stoney supplies next. “Or identity theft.”

Worthy of consideration. We know Angelique had a fake ID, why not a credit card in someone else’s name? She could charge items online, have them delivered to her home, then return them to local stores for cash or credit. Seems like the kind of activity, however, that would’ve drawn attention and been shared with the cops by now. Unless she used someone else’s house for delivery? A co-conspirator? The other half of us ? Interesting.

Of all the options, white-collar crime sounds like the best fit with the picture of the Angelique I’m building in my mind. Then again, my image is based on information from her family and friends. And clearly, they don’t know everything about her.

Angelique went to high school by day, and took online courses by night. A lot of school, actual and virtual, for a teenager. Could that be a hint? Illegal activity disguised as schoolwork? Maybe she sold exam answers and/or term papers? But tens of thousands of dollars’ worth? Are there even enough kids in high school or at GEDNow.com to supply that kind of income?

I keep turning it over in my mind but still can’t come up with a venture, illegal or otherwise, that can account for Angelique’s level of cash.

What if she found the money? Or stole it? Maybe she wasn’t a dope dealer, but say she babysat for a drug kingpin, discovered a stash of cash, and thought she could get away with helping herself. Until the dealer found out and . . .

Now I have too many possibilities to consider, though most of them result in Angelique being shot as a message to others, versus being kidnapped for eleven months. Drug dealers are not the subtle sort.

I dole out shots, top off drinks. I operate on muscle memory, a woman who’s spent the majority of her adult life in bars, while my mind whirrs and chugs and ponders.

None of it brings me peace.

Help us , Angelique had encoded into her school essay. A girl clearly in trouble and desperate enough to take a shot at reaching out. I agreed with what Detective Lotham had said—just because someone hadn’t walked into the cybercafé with a gun pointed at Angelique’s head didn’t mean she wasn’t under duress.