Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

I head into the bakery, where the intoxicating smell is even stronger. I note several display cases crammed full of huge, crackerlike rectangles that seem to be dusted in sugar. Then there are trays heavy with homemade peanut brittle, as well as cashew brittle. I don’t see any labels, prices, or menus. Apparently, I’m supposed to know what I’m looking at and what I want.

The two people ahead of me are placing brisk orders in what I’m guessing is French or Haitian Kreyòl . A third is talking on his phone, also in Kreyòl.

The door opens behind me. A uniformed officer appears, midthirties, solidly built. Officer O’Shaughnessy, I would presume. He nods at me once, then breaks into a broad smile I realize belatedly is for the pretty young thing standing at the counter behind me. She grins back happily.

I have a feeling I know why we’re meeting at this bakery.

“Frankie Elkin?” Officer O’Shaughnessy approaches, extends a hand. He nods at the two customers finishing up their orders, whether because he knows them or is being polite is harder to tell.

“It smells amazing in here,” I say, shaking his hand.

“You ever eaten Haitian meat patties?”

I shake my head.

“Then you’re in for a treat. Beef, chicken, or herring?”

“Um, chicken.”

O’Shaughnessy approaches the counter, works his magic on his female friend. They both chatter away in French or a dialect I don’t know, while she takes out a brown paper bag and starts doling out golden puff pastry squares from the warmer on the countertop.

The girl rings up the order. O’Shaughnessy takes the bag, which is already starting to darken with splotches of grease. A final dazzling grin for the pretty girl. Her blushing smile back. Then he returns to me, hefting up his bag of treasures. I don’t see any place to sit inside so I follow the officer outside, where he takes up position on the concrete steps. He holds out the bag, I tentatively reach in and draw out one of the pastry squares. It smells wonderful.

He eyes me wordlessly while I take a first bite, followed quickly by another.

“Best damn food in the city,” he informs me.

I nod enthusiastically. The pastry is light and flaky, the chicken filling both sweet and savory. I may have to eat several more just to place all the flavors. It’s not a hardship.

O’Shaughnessy settles in more comfortably. He’s purchased four of the meat patties. Now he dives in himself. “On the weekends, people drive in from all over to load up on Le Foyer’s patties. Buy ’em by the dozen. Me, I stop in three or four times a week. Don’t tell my mom, though. I’m required by filial law to swear hers are the best.”

I nod again, his secret safe with me, as we sit in silence, chewing happily.

Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy looks much as his name suggests: a bit of this, a bit of that. His skin is lighter than Guerline’s, his brown hair wavy, his features complicated. He’s definitely a good-looking kid. The girl inside the bakery must be thrilled.

“Ricardo O’Shaughnessy?” I ask finally.

“Haitian mom, Irish father. Welcome to Boston.”

“Father a cop?”

“Yep, and mother a nurse. Just to shake things up, though, I got one sister who’s joined the force, and one brother in nursing school.”

I nod in appreciation. “You’re the Haitian liaison?”

“Grew up in this neighborhood. Known it all my life. Lotta my mother’s family is still around, too. Point is, I have a relationship with this community. And plenty of the West Indies population in Mattapan, from the old-timers to the newbies, feel more comfortable reaching out to a familiar face.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Kreyòl. I can also do an impressive jig,” he deadpans. He finishes up his second treat, goes to work wiping the grease off his fingertips.

I judge him to be a solid enough cop but still young. More attitude than experience. I want to pat his hand, tell him that no matter what I discover next with the Angelique case, it’s not his fault.

“Photo ID?” he requests sharply, apparently ready to get down to business.

I dig out my driver’s license from my front pocket with my left hand and slide it over to him. He checks it out. “California? You’re a long way from home.”

I shrug, finish one of the best breakfasts of my life, and reach for a napkin.

He places my ID on the step between us, snaps a photo of it with his cell phone. His fingers fly at the base of the screen. I’m guessing he delivered the photo to a buddy for basic background. I would if I were him. He tucks his phone in his jacket pocket, hands me back my license.

“Why you here?” he asks.

“A job. Cheap rent. A, um, cat.” I sigh heavily. There’s no good way to have this conversation. I’m a civilian, he’s a cop. And most police will tell you no civilian has any business doing a cop’s job.

I give it my best shot: “Look, you’re going to get back a report on me telling you nothing of interest. I pay my taxes. I own only what fits into a travel bag. And I haven’t bothered with a house, car, or credit card in nearly a decade. I am who I am. I do what I do. For the next few months, that will involve bartending several nights a week, while living above Stoney’s and searching for Angelique Badeau.”

“You know her?”

“Never met her. Just as I never met Lani Whitehorse, a hardworking mom from the Navajo Nation, or Gwynne Margaret Andal, proud Filipina and oldest of three children, or Peggy Struzeski Griffith, a slightly crazy, book-loving blonde. But I found them, too. Run the names. You’ll see what I mean.”

Ricardo frowns at me. “I’ll run the names,” he warns.

I spread my hands to indicate I have nothing to hide. Then I lean back against the metal railing, so I can see his face better, and he can see mine. “You and your officers won’t like me,” I state. “I understand. But I have the right to ask questions, just like anyone else. What I do learn, of course I’ll share with the proper authorities. I don’t have any jurisdiction here. It’s not like I can search homes, or interrogate unwilling parties, or make an arrest. I simply want to learn the truth and gain closure for the family. I’ll cooperate with the police every step of the way.”

“You know how many murders we have around here?” Ricardo asks me.

“A lot. As well as a shocking number of nonfatal stabbings.”

“You know why?”

“This area is a hotbed of gang activity.”

He nods. “They’re organized block by block. D Block. H Block. This street, that street. We’re talking Black gangs, Haitian gangs, Puerto Rican—hell, we even have one corner held by the Chinese. You know what they all have in common?”

“They don’t like cops?” I guess.

“They don’t like outsiders.” He rakes me up and down. “You, Frankie Elkin, are an outsider.”

“My safety is my responsibility.”

“Till you get yourself in trouble and good officers have to wade into a dangerous situation to save your ass.”

“They took an oath. I don’t believe it was to serve and protect only people who make intelligent life choices.”

“Leave the family alone. They’ve been through enough.”

“Isn’t that for them to decide?”

“Drop the act. You’re here purely to help? For how long? Till you get wind of some lead or witness who will reveal Angel’s exact location, if only the family can raise the five hundred, one thousand, ten thousand dollars needed to seal the deal?”

“Run the background. I’m clean.” I notice he uses the nickname Angel. As in he knows the family that well. And cares that much.

“Just because you haven’t gotten caught, doesn’t mean you’re innocent.”