by Lisa Gardner
“You’re not scaring me off that easily,” I inform the shape under the bed.
I head to the ancient shower. Ten minutes later, shivering slightly from a spray that was more lukewarm than hot, I scrape my long hair back into a ponytail, fasten my fancy multi-tool clips to each side, then dab on facial moisturizer. The face looking back at me from the mirror isn’t young or fresh or pretty. I have lean features, plain brown eyes, a dusting of freckles across my nose. Twenty years ago, my complexion may have glowed, but too many years of boozing have taken their toll. Even with moisturizer I have fine lines creasing my eyes, my brow, the corners of my mouth.
I look tired, I think, that kind of weariness where no amount of rest will ever make a difference. I finger my chin, feeling the prickle of random hairs that hadn’t been there ten years ago, the soft pouch of skin sagging beneath my jawline. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Some sign of the girl I used to be, or some proof of the woman I am now?
I wish sometimes I could see myself the way Paul did, all those years ago.
By the end, he wished the same.
I pull away from the mirror, exit the curtained-off bathroom.
After all this time on the road, I’ve developed a uniform. Two pairs of worn jeans, one pair of cargo pants, and one pair of black yoga pants. I have three short-sleeved tops and three long-sleeved, all interchangeable. My olive-green canvas jacket is medium weight—it lacks the lining needed for winter wear but should get me through the next month. It’s easy enough to add a scarf or gloves if I need them. For shoes, I have one pair of sneakers and one pair of sturdy brown boots. Seven pairs of underwear, definitely on the dingy side. Seven pairs of socks, each a bit more worn than the last. I should stay here long enough to build the cash reserve necessary to refresh my wardrobe. But most of that depends on Angelique Badeau.
So far, I’m understanding why the media reports on her disappearance were thin and vague. There’s no narrative. Angelique was a good girl. She might have run away. She might have had her backpack stolen. She might have abandoned it herself after changing into fresh clothes.
Who was this girl? What happened to her in the middle of one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in Boston?
And nearly a year later, how can she remain vanished without a trace?
I finish lacing my tennis shoes, then fill a bowl with water and place it on the floor. Stoney had said the cat needed nothing, but that feels weird to me.
I grab my key, slide my Tracfone as well as my photo ID and a modest amount of cash into my coat’s inner pockets. Then I head out in search of breakfast.
* * *
—
I locate the nearest coffee shop, which turns out to be a vivid pink-and-orange Dunkin’ Donuts. I haven’t been to one in forever, but I remember the coffee as being excellent, the donuts okay. One large-coffee-loaded-with-cream-and-sugar later, I take a seat next to the window overlooking Morton Avenue and start planning out my day.
While I’d asked Guerline Violette to pass along my contact info to her friendly neighborhood cop, Ricardo, I don’t feel like waiting for the phone to ring. Instead I call the B-3 Boston PD field office and request to speak with Officer Ricardo, community liaison. There’s a pause.
“You mean Officer O’Shaughnessy?”
“Ricardo O’Shaughnessy?” Now I’m confused.
The phone attendant chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “Haitian liaison officer? We have a number of designated community contacts. Puerto Rican, LGBTQ, El Salvadoran?”
For a moment, I’m genuinely flummoxed. Most of the backwoods towns I’ve visited have been doing good to employ one or two officers to handle everything, let alone specialists for each community group. It’s a whole new world out here, I guess.
I confirm Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy, then provide my name and number. As for my message, I hesitate, then state: “I’m calling with the permission of Guerline Violette to follow up on Angelique’s disappearance.”
I say it just like that. As if I know exactly what I’m talking about, maybe I’m even an old friend of the family.
The operator doesn’t comment, just jots it all down. I leave my phone sitting out on the sticky tabletop while I nurse my large coffee and jot a list of initial questions I want answered. I’ve just underlined cell phone three times—I noticed two cellular provider stores last night, and what kind of teenager abandons her old phone without at least attempting to pick up another?—when my Tracfone rings.
I answer it quickly, discovering Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy on the other end, not sounding happy.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Frankie Elkin—”
“What’s your angle? You looking for money? Cuz you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“If we could meet in person—”
“This is horseshit. The family has been through enough.”
“I’m here to help.”
Snort. “Listen—”
“Meet me.” My turn to interject. “Just five minutes. Jot down my driver’s license number, general description, anything you need to check me out. But I’m sure when Guerline called you this morning, she said I had her permission to talk to you. For her sake, grant me at least a quick introduction. Then allow me one question. That’s all. One question, then I’ll leave you alone.”
Another dubious snort, followed by silence. If Officer O’Shaughnessy truly cares about the family or the investigation, he’ll feel compelled to interrogate me. His suspicion, my entry point.
Another moment, then a heavy sigh. “You know Le Foyer?”
“Sure.” I have no idea.
“Meet me there in an hour.”
“Absolutely.”
He hangs up, which gives me a moment to chug my coffee, grab my notes, then approach the six employees clustered behind the serving counter, eyeing the white chick with open curiosity.
“Le Foyer?” I ask hopefully.
Four out of the six raise their hands. I offer up my map. The manager, an imposing-looking woman whose name tag identifies her as Charadee, takes my map, jots down some notes, then hands it over. And just like that, I’m off and running again.
* * *
—
I’m learning quickly that Boston isn’t a town of neat and orderly streets. Instead, the lines on my map have me taking a diagonal here to a diagonal there. I stop and consult my directions often.
Walking down the sidewalks during daylight is a very different experience from last night. For one thing, I hardly see any other souls. For another, several of the winding streets offer rows of well-maintained freestanding homes, most looking straight out of the ’50s and many with cars that I only wish I could afford parked on the driveway. I pass a blue-painted house whose white trim is decorated with cutout hearts, then a front porch with intricate red-and-gold woodwork carved into the shape of flowers. There is also more green space than I expected, from tended yards to community gardens to grassy parks.
I don’t feel nervous at all walking down these streets. In fact, I’m beginning to think this quaint neighborhood might be one of the best-kept secrets in Boston. Maybe there’s a whole other reason the locals want to scare outsiders away. This kind of charming, affordable housing I’d certainly want to keep to myself.
I’m just coming to the major intersection with Blue Hill Avenue when I pass a tall chain-link fence to my left. I’m thinking automotive repair shop, when I catch the first whiff. My feet stop on their own. I inhale a second time. Pastry dough, sugar, spice. My stomach is already grumbling as I realize the setback brick building is my target. Le Foyer Bakery. If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’m in.
I don’t know what Officer O’Shaughnessy looks like. I’m guessing I’ll recognize him by his uniform. As for me, I’m the only white person I’ve seen this morning, so I’m guessing I�
�m easy to spot as well.
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.”
“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.