Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

He pulls up the program registration, showing eighteen kids: sixteen girls, two boys. Sure enough, Marjolie’s name is right after Angelique’s. Most likely they signed up together, the way friends do.

“Do you remember Angelique hanging out with anyone in particular?” I ask now, not giving away Marjolie’s name.

Frédéric pauses, leaning back his long frame and steepling elegant fingers together as he considers the matter. “There was one girl. They sat together. Also Haitian. Shorter, pretty. They seemed to know each other well. But this other girl didn’t care about fashion class so much. She spent more of her time in the gym.”

“Like playing basketball or something?”

“Like watching the boys playing basketball.” He arches a suggestive brow.

“Boyfriend, or boy crazy?”

“One boy in particular. I once had to interrupt a . . . social situation that had gone too far.”

I take that to mean Marjolie had been making out with said love interest in some random corner. Frankly, if I’d been at summer camp in this vast building at that age . . . Had to be secluded spots everywhere and I bet the kids knew every single one.

“What about Angelique? Ever interrupt one of her . . . social situations?”

Frédéric shakes his head.

“Did she have a tendency to drift out of her program to, say, watch basketball, boxing, baseball, whatever?” I’m pursuing the theory that Angelique had a secret romance. Especially with her best friend distracted by some basketball player, maybe Angelique had felt compelled to do likewise.

“She would go on occasion to watch her brother,” Frédéric supplies. “During breaks, though. She never missed class. At least not that I ever heard, and it is my job to hear such things.”

His picture of Angelique is consistent with everything else I’ve been told about the teen. For now, I table the boyfriend idea and return to my own thought from the night before: “What about another girl? A new friend Angelique bonded with while Marjolie was off drooling in the gym?”

Frédéric frowns, hesitates. “This was two summers ago . . .”

“And yet Angelique went missing shortly thereafter. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

He winces. I can’t even imagine how hard his job must be, trying to both corral and inspire hundreds of at-risk teens. Wanting to make a difference, knowing there are limits. And then when one of the kids who by all accounts should make it simply vanishes one fall afternoon . . . I have a feeling Frédéric has done nothing but replay the memories he has of Angelique over and over again.

“I wish I had noticed more,” he concedes now. “Paid more attention, made more effort. But Angelique, she was a good kid. She came on time. She stayed with her program. She produced many beautiful drawings. Lillian posted several around the halls. I remember congratulating Angelique on her work. She seemed shy, but again, not one to get into trouble. My time, my job, is spent more with those teens.” He shrugs. “It is regretful, but it is what it is.”

“You have problems with gang activity here?” I change gears.

“We are zero tolerance. Any gang signs, colors, activity leads to immediate expulsion. The kids know. Off the grounds, yes, there are problems. But when they enter this property . . . If they want to shoot hoops, they play nice. It works more effectively than you think.”

“Are there times all the kids intermix? I mean, regardless of fashion camp versus boxing camp or whatnot?”

“Lunch is within each group. It makes it easier for us to monitor. But there are breaks during the day. Kids wander. Some might go watch a part of a soccer game or gather to enjoy the sun outside. They are teens, and we want the programs to be fun, not just . . .” He struggles for the word.

“Glorified lockup?” I volunteer.

He sighs but doesn’t disagree.

“Can I get a copy of this list?” I point to the registration list for fashion camp.

“The police have it.”

“I don’t want to bother them. I’m trying to find new leads to move us forward, not make them go backward.”

He hesitates again, but my argument is a decent one. He prints me out a fresh list.

“One last thing. If you don’t mind. A simple memory exercise. You know Angelique’s face?”

He nods.

“Now picture her, here, the last time you saw her. Where is she?”

It takes him a moment, but he complies, even going so far as to close his eyes. “Angelique is sitting outside on a yellow bench. She has her sketch pad on her lap, her head bent over as she draws. As I walk by, making my rounds, she doesn’t look up but continues to sketch, very fast, very focused. I can hear the scratch of charcoal against the page. I remember thinking she looked like a true artist, with a vision in her head she must capture immediately, before it disappeared forever. I was impressed.”

“Could you see the drawing?”

“No, but she was wearing her hair down. She had thick ringlets that hung in front of her like a curtain.”

“Were there other kids around her?”

Silence as he digs deeper into his recollection. “I see three boys. They have a hacky sack and are kicking it around. Two more girls, sitting on another bench. One is giggling. There are other kids lounging in the grass. The weather is very beautiful.”

“Who is closest to Angelique? A boy? A girl?”

“I see only the three boys and they are busy with their game.”

“Anyone else? Someone near Angelique, or maybe—like you—noticing Angelique even if she doesn’t notice them?”

Slowly, he says: “There’s another girl. Seated on the ground further down, her back against the building. She is also drawing, but she is in the shade, not the sun. She is looking in Angelique’s direction. She is watching Angelique draw. When I walk by, however, the girl ducks her head quickly. Too quickly, I think. I’m about to stop, push a little, then I hear yelling in the soccer field. I turn and head there.”

“What does this other girl look like?”

“Another teen. I remember seeing her in the fashion camp as well.” Frédéric opens his eyes, shakes his head. “But I don’t remember her face. I’m not even sure I ever saw it fully. I could always find her in a crowd, however, by looking for her hat. Every day, regardless of weather or conditions, she wore the same red ball cap. And yes, now that you mention it, she was often staring at Angelique.”

I’ve barely left the rec center property, heading back down the main boulevard with a vague notion of finding my bus stop, when a white car goes roaring past me in the opposite lane. It slams on its brakes, performs a hard U-turn, and zips up beside me.

“Get in,” Detective Lotham orders.

I stare at him for a moment, not trying to be belligerent, but definitely disoriented.

“I know you like to walk,” he growls.

“Actually, I was headed for the bus.”

“Stop being so damn contrarian and get the hell in.”

The moment he calls me contrarian I naturally want to protest. But the urgency in his voice, underlaid with anger, and maybe even a hint of fear, catches my attention. I get in. I’ve no sooner shut the door than he floors the gas. The sudden acceleration slams me back against my seat and I scramble for a seat belt.

“What do you know about counterfeiting?” he asks me, both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. He’s leaning forward, as if throwing his whole body into his aggressive driving.

“As in money?”

“U.S. currency to be exact.”

“I thought that was very hard to do.”

“Exactly. Meaning it’s not a small-time DIY enterprise. The good fakes generally come from overseas. Europe, Russia. You need the right equipment and a master tradesperson to pull it off. Computers have simplified the process some—the good forgers scan hundreds of images of, say, a Ben Franklin, then create a 3D master plate based off the composite image. Provides the bills with the same printing imperfections the U.S. Treasury installed on purpose. Still, there are watermarks and special paper and reflective dyes. Not something for the average criminal to execute.”