Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

I unstack chairs, wipe tabletops, slice up lemons and limes, and still come no closer to any answers. Clearly Angelique is trying to communicate. Unfortunately, I still didn’t get the message.

Viv appears through the front door. She stops when she sees me.

“I hear you’re looking for that poor missing girl.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You some kind of private eye?”

“I’m gonna go with some kind .”

She hums her approval in her Viv-like way. “Honey, no child should be missing from her family. Any way I can help, you let me know.”

“Do you know the Samdi family? Their daughter is Livia.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I can ask around. Mattapan ain’t that big, but it’s crowded enough. Was a time when I felt like I knew my neighbors, but not anymore.”

Viv disappears into the kitchen, hollering out a greeting to Stoney, who grunts in reply. I just finish setting up the bar in time for the first few customers to arrive. I already recognize a few of the regulars, and no longer earn so many dark scowls. I take that as progress as I start banging out drinks and delivering plates of hot food.

I keep myself busy. I tell myself I’m not glancing at the door every time it opens. I promise myself I’m not some giddy schoolgirl anxiously waiting for her crush to appear.

It doesn’t really work, but thankfully the combination of cheap beer and low-priced food has the tables filled and the orders coming. I’m a good bartender. I like the steady rhythm, the adrenaline rush of juggling dozens of customers, followed by the quieter times where I restock, clean up, and prepare for the madness to return.

The hard-core drinkers aren’t ones to talk, but I like that, too. More of them make eye contact with me tonight. Another few days, and I’ll be worthy of them learning my name. Then my list of growing social contacts will really piss the detective off.

Nine p.m. Dinner crowd done, tables thinning, demand easing.

No detective.

Ten p.m. Down to a few tables of rowdies, enjoying a big night out.

No detective.

Eleven p.m. Tables are pretty much cleared. The bar is left with the hard-core stragglers, who will stay to closing.

I scared him off. Not everyone appreciates bluntness, and not every man can deal with the hot mess that is me.

Or he’s exhausted, having spent most of last night working. Or he’s still on the job, as today’s revelations have led to even more breaks in the case.

I want to hear about new breaks in the case. I want . . .

The door opens.

Lotham appears.

And despite all my bold declarations, my stomach flip-flops and my hands tremble, and I do feel like a stupid schoolgirl, even though I, of all people, know better.

The detective has showered and changed. Dark jeans, paired with a rich turquoise button-down shirt stretched across his broad chest. He radiates cop and authority figure and military man all rolled into one. As he approaches the bar, several of the hard-core drinkers beat a retreat. I don’t blame them.

“Girly drink?” I ask as he takes a seat.

He gives me a look. “I’ll take a glass of water.”

The order unsettles me. Because he’s still working and needs a clear head? Or because he wants complete focus for our future interlude?

I dump ice in a glass, add water. Stoney wanders over, greets the detective with a nod. This time of night, never bad to have a cop nearby. Then Viv bustles out, takes in my impressive new customer, eyes him, eyes me, then delivers a not-so-subtle “You go girl.”

I turn red, which frazzles me more. I never did the giddy schoolgirl thing. Frankly, I was much too hammered most of the time to care. Manic, yes. Destructive, certainly. Giddy, never.

I place the water in front of Lotham. He takes a sip. At the end of the bar, one of the regulars flags me down to settle up his bill. I’m grateful for the distraction.

More beer here. A final round of rum punch there. Clearing plates. Cleaning tables. Moving, moving, moving.

I really would like a drink right now—and that, as much as anything, pisses me off. Time to get over my own fucking self.

By the time I return to the bar, my nerves have settled and Lotham has finished half his water.

“Food?” I ask him.

“Honestly, I’ve had nothing but grease for days. What I could use is a salad, but that’s not exactly on the menu.”

“Viv has been known to do special orders. For her favorites.”

“Viv, from the kitchen?”

“That’s her. And judging by the way she was looking at you, you’re already one of her favorites.”

That earns me a grin. Briefly, the detective appears ten years younger. His job is a burden he never sets down. It is both extremely attractive and kind of sad. Trying to save the world can be as much a compulsion as drinking, except Lotham doesn’t have a twelve-step program to save him from himself. I wonder if he will burn out, become embittered with the job, the life he never took the time to build. Maybe one day he will envy me, but I doubt it.

I pop into the kitchen. Ask Viv if she wouldn’t mind making a garden salad for a friend. That earns me so many cackles and knowing winks I have to leave before I start blushing again.

But the salad comes and the detective turns his attention to his food. The bar empties out and soon enough, Stoney is there, ready to lock the front door. He eyes the detective questioningly.

“He’s going to stay for a bit.”

Stoney nods, locks up, then pockets the key before making a point of disappearing to his office. I don’t know how to close out the register, so eventually he’ll have to take care of that, but for now I start stacking chairs.

Without a word, Lotham slips off the table and carries his plate to the kitchen.

“Hello, handsome!” Forget about me, he’s officially made Viv’s night.

“Thank you, ma’am. That was exactly what I needed.”

“You come again, let me know and I’ll make you a steak. Then you’ll know exactly what you’ve needed.”

From the back room, I hear Stoney make a strangling sound. Then Lotham reappears, looking slightly wide-eyed and red-faced. At least it’s not just me. I hand him a broom. As long as he’s here, he might as well be useful.

He starts from the back, working his way to the front while I wipe down the last of the tables and finish with the chairs.

“Did you learn more about Livia Samdi?” I ask him finally.

“She’s definitely missing, and the family definitely doesn’t care for police involvement.”

“Wait, is that your way of saying there might be value to my particular approach?”

“A good cop would never encourage civilian involvement in a case.”

Which is not the same thing as no.

“When did Livia run away?” I continue.

“January. Nearly three months after Angelique.”

“And the circumstances?”

“Went to school and never came home again.”

“That sounds suspiciously familiar. And they never contacted police?”

“According to the mom, Roseline, it wasn’t the first time Livia had disappeared. Sometimes the girl wouldn’t come home on Friday but would show up to school on Monday like nothing happened. Lost weekends. Even a week here and there. Let’s just say, given the . . . nature . . . of the household, I’m surprised they noticed that much.”

“What did Livia take with her?”

“That’s the thing. According to the mom, Livia’s clothes, personal possessions are mostly accounted for. She didn’t own a computer, just a cell phone, which disappeared with her. We tried pinging it with no luck. But we’re now pulling a record of calls and texts from the provider. Will be interesting to see if the phone is genuinely no longer in use, or just activated in short intervals.”