Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

I nod, then start to connect the dots, why Detective Lotham is suddenly an expert on forgery. “The bills from Angelique’s lamp,” I murmur out loud. Of all the findings from the hidden cash, this is not one I’d expected.

“A tenth of them are counterfeit. Almost exactly. Which, according to the Secret Service agent who showed up in my office this morning, is how it’s usually done.”

“They mix in fake money with real money so it’s less noticeable?”

We’ve come to a red light. Lotham hits a switch on his dash, issuing a shrill whoop , whoop , and we scream on through. I grab hold of the oh-shit handle, still not knowing where we are going with such urgency.

“Angelique’s stash isn’t as large as it appears. We’re talking rolls of twenties, wrapped in hundreds.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a popular trick among the streetwise to appear richer than they are.”

“Give me a total.”

“Stashed in that lamp was about twelve thousand dollars.”

“Still an impressive haul.”

“Yep. But the outer layer, the Ben Franklins—”

“Those were counterfeit?”

“Exactly. To make matters more interesting, these particular counterfeits have been in circulation for years, apparently. They’re called the Russian notes, because the U.S. Secret Service believes they were first printed there. Using an offset printer, probably in a giant warehouse with specialized dyes, acids. Again, not a local job.”

I nod, though more to register I’ve heard the words than I understand them. We hit another intersection, and with a fresh whoop , whoop , we slice through two lanes of traffic before instigating a hard left across oncoming traffic. My stomach tightens. A fresh boost of speed, then we clear imminent death and sail down a narrow side street.

“Are the counterfeiters actually chasing us?” I ask Detective Lotham. “Or is this your competitive streak now that a federal agency is involved?”

“Forget Secret Service. They already have the bills and—based on the serial numbers—they already know the source. For them, this is mop-up from a decades-old operation. Some Russian syndicate executed tens of millions of near-perfect fakes. They sold them for ten cents on the dollar to a distributor who sold them for twenty-five cents on the dollar to various middlemen in various countries who finished the food chain by selling them locally for sixty cents on the dollar. According to Agent Ford, they’ll be recovering the fake Benjamins for the rest of his life and from all over the world.”

“So how did Angelique end up with them?”

“That remains our problem. How, who, why? According to Agent Ford, any one of us might be carrying a counterfeit without knowing it. But a dozen of them? Each wrapped around a bundle of real twenty-dollar bills? That’s not random. We certainly have Russian gangs in Boston, which might explain how we ended up with these fakes in this area. But not too many Russian crime bosses are hanging out with Mattapan gangbangers. Criminal enterprises are notoriously snobbish, and our local gangs aren’t sophisticated enough for Russian interest.”

I have no idea what to say to this. It’s okay. In the way Boston works, a random street has appeared ahead, forking a right diagonal, not to be confused with the three other diagonals flaring out around it. Lotham hits that turn as hard as he hit the others. Apparently, he’s in a temper this morning.

“Did you sleep last night?” I ask him.

“Does at a desk count? Minute I logged those bills into evidence, my phone started ringing off the hook. And then my sergeant called me into his office . . .”

“So it’s your sergeant we’re running away from?”

“Don’t be a wise-ass.”

“I’m more worried about becoming a soon-to-be-dead dumbass. Why the bells and whistles?”

“We have a sighting.”

“What?”

“A teen matching Angelique’s description just tried to purchase a fresh burner phone using a fake ID. The ID bears the same name, Tamara Levesque, as the one given to the cybercafé clerk two weeks ago. Officer O’Shaughnessy is already there, fanning out with a few other units, hoping to get lucky.”

“We’re joining the hunt?” I don’t know which surprises me more: that there’s an active search after all these months, or that I’ve been invited to participate.

“ We are not doing anything. I’m interviewing the sales specialists. You.” Lotham blew out a hard breath. “Heaven help me,” he muttered.

“I’m there for moral support?”

“No. You’re there because one of the witnesses, some guy named Charlie, asked for you.”

By the time we come to a screeching halt, the scene in front of the wireless company is a pile of blue uniformed officers, a crowd of gawkers, and, if I’m not mistaken, a number of corner dealers backpedaling furiously down the street.

Detective Lotham spares the retreating youths a look but doesn’t acknowledge or pursue. Today is their lucky day: The police have bigger fish to fry.

I spot Charlie almost immediately. He stands outside the storefront, his large size and authentic army jacket making a statement. Next to him stands a female beat cop, clearly waiting.

Detective Lotham ushers me through the crowd. Once on the other side of the madness, he pauses long enough to state, “When you’re done talking to your friend, remember who drove you here.” Then he disappears into the store, leaving me to cross the remaining space to Charlie.

I feel suddenly awkward, unsure of what to say. We’ve met only once, at an AA meeting. In the midst of this hoopla, why ask for me?

Charlie doesn’t speak right away, but nods his greeting.

Then he stares at the female officer. She gives me a look as if to say he’s all my problem now. She drifts off five feet. Still monitoring, but allowing some privacy.

“Detective Lotham said you asked for me.”

Charlie stares at me. He has his hands in his coat pockets. It makes him look bigger, broader. I don’t think he’s trying to appear intimidating as much as he simply can’t help it. But I still don’t find him threatening. The man joined the service because he has an instinct to protect. And some things, no matter the trauma, can’t be shaken.

“You asked about cheap cells,” Charlie says now. “You asked about the missing girl, Angelique Badeau. Just last night, you asked these questions.”

I nod.

“I stopped by the store today, to take care of some business. But as long as I was here, I started thinking, I started wondering. About you and your questions. Then I look up and I swear to God, there she is.”

“Angelique Badeau.”

“And she’s trying to buy a phone. I couldn’t help myself. I stared straight at her. Next thing I know, she’s snatching back her ID, tossing the new phone on the counter, and booking it out the door. Then the damn salesman starts yelling for security and the idiot runs right into me. By the time I get out onto the street, I can’t see her anymore. But she was in there. I swear it. Trying to buy a phone.” His eyes narrow. “How? You tell me. How did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” I tell him honestly. “Not that she’d buy a new phone. But I’d read in the paper that the police had recovered her original mobile eleven months ago. Figuring no teenager can be without a cell, stood to reason she’d bought a replacement along the way. That’s why I was asking about cheap burners. If I were a teenager with secrets, at least that’s what I’d buy.”

“You’re no teenager,” Charlie tells me.

I smile wanly. “But I do have secrets.”

“Who are you?”