Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

“And just because you’re suspicious, doesn’t mean I’m guilty.” I lean forward. “You think I’m here to make you look stupid, or even worse, exploit the family. There’s nothing I can say that’s going to change any community officers’ or lead detectives’ minds. So for now, let’s agree to disagree. You do your thing. I’ll do my mine. What I learn, I’ll share. And maybe, just for the sake of argument, an outsider like me can shake loose a piece of information that will move the case forward. Win-win for all, but especially the family.”

“Stay away from Guerline and Emmanuel,” Ricardo informs me. He stuffs our grease-stained napkins inside the sack, rising to stand.

“Wait. What about my turn? Our deal was, you got to lecture me in return for answering a single question.”

“The reward for any information leading to the discovery of Angelique Badeau?” he asks dryly.

I struggle not to lose patience, though given how many times I’ve had this same conversation in my life . . .

“Angelique went missing Friday afternoon after school,” I state now. “But the police investigation didn’t ramp up till Monday morning. Why that delay? What did you guys find, or not find, on Friday afternoon that kept you from immediately issuing an Amber Alert?”

Officer O’Shaughnessy regards me for a full minute. Then, “Dan Lotham.”

“Who is Dan Lotham?”

“The lead detective on the case. He’s who you need to ask.”

“Don’t suppose you feel like calling him on my behalf? Or I guess . . .” Meaningful pause. “I could always ask Guerline?”

The look Ricardo gives me would send a lesser person running. But I keep my face passive, my stare level. Nice doesn’t always get the job done. And if this convinces Officer O’Shaughnessy once and for all that I’m a manipulative bitch, well, he won’t be the first. Or the last.

Families always think they want the truth. But I’ve worked enough of these cases to know that sometimes cold hard facts slice deeper than expected. My contract is not with the cops. Not with the family. Not with the community.

My contract is with Angelique.

“Be careful what you wish for,” O’Shaughnessy mutters now, as if reading my mind. “I’ll give Detective Lotham your information. But between you and me, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

The story of my life, I think.

O’Shaughnessy descends the steps and heads for his patrol car. I watch him drive away.

CHAPTER 6

The Boston public school system is a mystery to me. I grew up in a small community. One elementary school, one middle school, one regional high school. You stood at a corner, the bus came and took you where you needed to go with the rest of the neighborhood kids. Boston, on the other hand . . .

Public schools, charter schools, international schools. Forget local geography, such as Mattapan. From what I read, a high schooler could attend any public school in the city of Boston, using some crazy application process that probably made engaged parents want to shoot themselves and disengaged parents . . . well, that much more disengaged.

Given such madness, high schoolers didn’t rely on the traditional yellow school bus. Instead, they had student passes for the city’s mass transit system—the T. Reading about it gave me a headache. That headache returns now as I contemplate the map of Boston’s MBTA system.

The articles on Angelique’s disappearance listed her high school as Boston Academy, a program that prided itself on helping minority students prepare for futures in healthcare, medicine, et cetera. If Angelique wanted to be a doctor, her school choice made perfect sense. From what I can tell, Boston Academy is a mere twenty minutes—and many confusing rail-bus-subway stops—away. Just to make it more interesting, I’ve managed to catch Boston in the middle of a massive update to the MBTA, guaranteed to cause delays, shutdowns, and random moments of sheer chaos.

I follow one of my printed-out maps to a local station, where I dutifully sit next to the tracks, watching garbage blow this way and that. I make out some graffiti farther down the way, not to mention random stickers adhered to benches and signs, now faded with age. A tattered poster is fastened near the T sign. MISSING, it reads in large print. Below, barely visible after eleven months of weather: Angelique’s official headshot. I feel a moment of fresh sadness. Not just because this girl is missing, but because from here on out, she will be defined by this one image. Was she happy the day this photo was snapped? Thinking about school, dreaming about boys, or plotting her next adventure with her friends?

Or, if her disappearance really was a planned event of her own making, was she already working at the details even as this photo was taken? Hoping no one would look too close? Fearing someone might notice?

I try to study the smudged photo for answers, but of course it offers none.

A rumble along the tracks, then my train arrives. Except it doesn’t look like a train to me. More like a vintage trolley. Orange, single car, cute. I’m supposed to take the trolley a couple of stops, then transfer to a bus. I once worked a case in a state park where the entire search area was accessible only via horseback; how hard could this be?

I screw up getting off at my first stop—ironically enough, because I’m studying the stupid map. I get off at the next and double back on foot, feeling frazzled and rushed as I don’t have much time if I want to catch Angelique’s school friends during their lunch break. My other option is to wait for them after school, but I have to be back at work then. I don’t think Stoney will tolerate an employee showing up late for her very first day, even if she did survive her feline roommate the night before.

I make my second attempt to locate the right bus, only to find myself now headed in the wrong direction. Third stop, when I’m definitely starting to freak out and trying hard not to show it, an older African American woman with carefully coiffed gray curls and perfect red lipstick reaches up from her seat and gently tugs at the hem of my jacket.

“Would you like some help, dear?”

“Yes, please!”

I plop down in the seat beside her, handing over my now wrinkled printout. She eyes it carefully, then hands it back.

“I’ve never been any good with maps.” She taps her temple with a manicured nail. “But I have it all right here. Tell me where you’re going, child, and I’ll get you there.”

Her name is Leena. She’s a retired receptionist, off to visit her sister for the day. She reminds me of a grande dame. Not just impeccably groomed, but with the kind of self-possession that comes from hard-fought battles and harder-won forgiveness. We speak for three minutes, long enough for me to decide I want to be her when I grow up.

Armed with her directions, I set off again. It takes me only a moment to realize Leena’s right. If I hold in my head where I want to go, my feet take me in the right direction. One glance at the map, however, and all bets are off. Maybe because the transit map bears no resemblance to surface streets. It offers an oversimplified series of blue, green, red, and yellow spines that are far too neat for the reality of an overgrown historic city bristling with random byways.

I still make two wrong turns, but at last I find myself standing in front of Boston Academy in South Dorchester. The school sits atop a grassy knoll, one of the few touches of green I can see. If Mattapan is densely populated, high on crime, and low on the socioeconomic totem pole, South Dorchester appears to be its kissing cousin.

The academy boasts an imposing three-story façade with broad windows and huge glass doors that lead straight to twin metal detectors. Behind the carved granite entrance, the body of the building unfolds in a series of tall brick wings. Each exterior window is the same size, and they are equally spaced, row after row after row.