Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

Detective Lotham turns his gaze to Charlie, who immediately nods. “Livia ran away,” Charlie supplies.

“Where did you hear this rumor?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I interject quickly. “What about Officer O’Shaughnessy? As the community liaison, maybe he knows more. We should ask him.”

“You know what I learned inside?” Detective Lotham speaks up abruptly.

“What?”

“Nothing. No, not entirely true. I learned some kid named Warren couldn’t describe his own mother if his life depended on it, and oh yeah, the security cameras haven’t worked properly for months though they’ve been meaning to do something about that. You, on the other hand, standing out on the sidewalk . . .”

“It’s a gift,” I assure him. Then, noticing that Officer O’Shaughnessy is now looking in our direction, quickly wave him over before Lotham spontaneously combusts.

Detective Lotham steps back, takes a moment to consult with O’Shaughnessy. Now Charlie, the female cop, and I all eavesdrop shamelessly. This is what we hear: The uniforms had spread out and canvassed the neighborhood. According to witnesses, a girl in a red baseball cap had booked it out of the store and headed north. One officer had discovered her fake ID where it had dropped on the sidewalk two blocks from here. But no sign of Angelique herself.

Lotham brings O’Shaughnessy over. Charlie repeats his news. O’Shaughnessy frowns thoughtfully.

“I know the Samdi family, but not well. Dad’s MIA. Mom’s a drunk.”

Lotham glances from me to Charlie, seems to connect the dots. I shrug as if to say, finally. He sighs again.

“Hadn’t heard about Livia, though,” O’Shaughnessy continued. “Her oldest brother recently got pinched for dealing. Small time, and not exactly news, but hardly a surprise either. The family . . . Let’s just say they’re not the type to get the police involved in their business.”

Lotham nods. “We’re going to need to talk to them. Learn everything about Livia, including last time she was seen, relationship with Angelique Badeau, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Us,” I murmur. “Or maybe the beginning of us .”

O’Shaughnessy gives me a funny look. “Angel’s family has never mentioned Livia’s name. So I’m not sure what ‘us’ you’re talking about.”

“I don’t think they knew. I don’t think anyone knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About their friendship. Or whatever it was.” I turn over the pieces in my mind. “They met at the rec center. Angelique had signed up for the summer program with her bestie Marjolie, but it turns out Marjolie was more interested in a certain basketball player than fashion camp. So Angelique ended up on her own. Until she made a new friend, Livia Samdi, who, for whatever reason, Angelique felt compelled to keep secret. Maybe because Livia had a history of getting into trouble? Or the nature of their relationship? I don’t know all the details yet. But Livia was definitely aware of Angelique. The executive director, Frédéric, reported that he caught her watching Angelique on several occasions. You should talk to him.”

“I have talked to Frédéric,” Lotham practically growls.

“Then you should’ve asked him more questions relevant to teenage girls,” I retort, starting to feel hostile myself. It’s not my fault he didn’t pick up on the details. Maybe he should’ve invested more time in a misspent youth. Certainly, I make most of my discoveries by asking what would my former, reprobate self do, and voilà, I get answers.

“Have you eaten?” Lotham asks me abruptly.

“No . . .”

“Great. Follow me.”

He doesn’t wait, just turns and heads up the street. I glance at O’Shaughnessy and Charlie. Both appear as confused as I feel. Charlie finally gives me a little nod. I take that as a hint and scamper after Lotham. He doesn’t slow down or turn around, as he cuts his way through the slowly dispersing crowd of gawkers.

I realize several things at once. It’s already after one in the afternoon and I’m starving. Also, I’m two hours from reporting to a job I can’t afford to miss for the second day in a row. And yet, to pull away from the case now . . .

Lotham crosses the street. I follow, barely on his heels. Up ahead, a giant battered sign appears. It looks like an enormous ice cream cone perched on top of a roof. I can just make out the word Simco running down the peeling white cone. The words across the ice cream top are harder to make out; maybe hot dog ? Though why a giant ice cream cone to advertise hot dogs?

Lotham has picked up his pace. I hustle to catch up.

Simco’s World’s Largest Hot Dog does appear to be our destination. It’s a long, stand-alone building with a row of windows for ordering takeout. Half the windows are covered in photos of food. In addition to hot dogs, there’s everything from a fried whiting dinner to Caribbean flavors to frappés, fried dough, and raspberry-lime rickeys. I’m so mesmerized by the options, I barely notice that Lotham has stopped in front of one of the open windows, where a middle-aged Black woman waits impatiently for our order.

“What do you want?” he asks me.

“Everything! I’ve never had a lime rickey. Sounds amazing.”

“We’ll take two dogs, one rickey, and a chocolate frappé,” Lotham orders.

“Perfect. What are you going to have?”

He rolls his eyes, clearly onto my witty repartee by now.

There are toppings to be sorted out. I have no idea so I let the local have at it. Soon enough we have a greasy bag of food and two freezing-cold drinks. I’m excited.

“If I’m a good girl and eat all my food, can I have fried dough afterwards? Or maybe the banana boat. Dear God, this is better than the county fair.”

“County fair?”

“Trust me.”

We stand on the sidewalk to eat. Cars roar past, some beaters, some so custom you have to wonder about the driver’s profession. Lotham seems immune. He keeps chewing and swallowing, his eyes half-mast with happiness. The hot dogs are super long, the fries salty, and the raspberry-lime rickey a refreshing hit of icy tartness.

“Number six,” I inform Lotham as I munch away. I’m never going to finish the world’s largest hot dog, but it’ll be fun to try.

“Number six what?”

“Best meal I ever had.”

“You rate them?”

“It’s good to note key moments. And food is often a source of happiness.”

“You’re saying eating a hot dog standing roadside is your sixth all-time favorite meal?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t understand you at all, Elkin.”

“Because I’m simple when you want me to be complicated. And I’m complicated when you want me to be simple.” I shrug. I’ve lived with myself for a long time now. And part of maintaining my sobriety is being honest even when it hurts.

Lotham has already finished his dog. He goes to work on his fries with mechanical precision.

“You piss me off,” he states.

“I got that memo.”

“We asked questions. I personally visited that fucking rec center. For that matter, I was there when we searched the apartment, interviewed family and friends. And yet you . . .” He seems at a loss for words. “Three days into it, and you’ve turned this whole damn thing on its head.”

“Would you rather have no leads at all?”

“No, dammit!”

“Then you’d rather all discoveries be the product of your greatness?”

“I’m not that petty!”

“Then what the hell is it you want? I’m here. I’m sharing. Frankly, you’re the one being an asshole.”

Lotham scowls, eats more fries. “I’m trying to figure out your secret. Or what to do with you. Or what to make of you. Maybe all three.”