Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  It’s after eleven now. Only half a dozen customers and forty-five minutes left till closing. I return to the bar and my position across from Lotham.

  “Officer O’Shaughnessy was warning me about the gang activity in this area, dozens of them willing to kill over a single block of real estate. I did some reading of my own, you know, before I waded inexperienced and untrained into the lions’ den. There was a local case a few years back. A gang needed to lure out a rival in order to kill him. But their faces, their girlfriends, were too well known. So they recruited a new girl with no history of gang activity—had one of the females befriend her. Couple of months later, at her new friend’s request, that girl invites the rival to meet her at the park for a date. He shows up . . . Further statistics ensue.”

  I tilt my head at Lotham. “Angelique would be a good target for that kind of scheme. Shy, quiet girl, also innocent and pretty. Maybe she was befriended, maybe threatened, but for whatever reason, she ended up in a situation beyond her control.”

  “I remember that case.” Lotham nods. “There was a retaliatory shooting shortly thereafter. Killed three more.”

  “But if that’s what it was,” I contemplate, once again leaning in close, “why didn’t she come home when it was over? Unless something worse happened? A shooting followed by a retaliatory shooting, like you mentioned? But in that case, you’d have a bunch of cops deployed to those scenes, and one of them should’ve seen or heard about Angelique.”

  “True. Plus, there’s another problem with that scenario.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Gangbangers don’t fly.”

  It takes me a second, then I get it. If Angelique were meeting up with new friends, and/or gangsters, there should still be some image caught on video. Maybe cameras missed the blip of a moment when Angelique appeared here, or crossed there. But for her to head deeper into the hood, traversing neighborhoods and parks, whether by foot, subway, or car . . . No way some camera somewhere didn’t capture her image. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Detective Lotham hadn’t personally viewed all possible video feeds dozens of times. I’ve done it myself, poring over maps again and again.

  It’s how I found Lani Whitehorse, because in the end the lake was the only place she could’ve gone, regardless of the tribal police saying there were no tire marks in the mud, or flattened bushes along the shore to indicate an accident and justify the cost of a water search. I don’t know why that was, or how an ancient Chevy went from a hairpin turn to thirty yards out into a lake without leaving any trace behind. Maybe not all things are meant to be understood.

  Of course, in Angelique’s case there remains one other terrible, awful scenario.

  “Sex trafficking,” I murmur now. “Innocent girls are often lured into the life. Angelique fits the description as that kind of target as well. Meaning maybe she thought she was going on a date with the new man in her life, except . . .” I shrug. “She never got to come home.”

  Lotham doesn’t answer right away. He spins his drink, watching the white liqueur coat the chips of ice. “Boston has a human trafficking unit. They can reach out to CIs, run facial rec against all the local sex services sites, partner with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Prostitution is no longer a street game. It’s gone digital just like everything else. Customers log in, peruse the ‘menu,’ place the order. Sick to be sure, but it does allow us to cover a lot more ground using cyber tech. Let’s just say the human trafficking unit has nothing new to report.”

  Stoney appears at the end of the bar, clad in his usual worn jeans and blue chambray shirt. He looks at his watch. Two minutes to midnight by my count, but apparently close enough for him, as he raps the bar three times hard with his fist.

  Last call. Customers toss back drinks, rise to standing, cash out accounts. One by one. Till only Detective Lotham remains. Stoney gives him a look, seems to decide he’s nothing to fear, then retreats to the kitchen.

  I yawn. “Gonna help me clean?” I ask, starting to stack up dirty glasses.

  “I’m trying to figure you out.”

  “If only someone could.”

  “You really don’t work for money.”

  “And give up this kind of reckless abandon?”

  “You literally go from place to place, case to case, no time off, no life, no loved ones in between? Like what, some kind of modern-day gunslinger?”

  “Yes, there are that many open missing persons cases out there. I could travel from town to town, investigation to investigation for the rest of my life, and still not make a dent in the number.”

  “Why?” Lotham downs the last of his drink. He stands up from the stool, then makes his way around the bar till he’s standing right in front of me. His eyes aren’t so flat now. They’re dark and deep and endless. He really does want to know. If only I had the answer.

  “I think Kyra and Marjolie were right,” I murmur. “If Angelique had met a boy, she would’ve told them. Maybe not her aunt and her brother, but her two best friends? They would’ve known. But most likely, she had met someone. And what kind of someone would a teenage girl hesitate to introduce immediately to her inner circle?”

  “An older man?”

  “Or a new female friend. Someone who might be good for Angelique but threatening to her posse. Teenage girls don’t always take that kind of change well.”

  Lotham’s studying me intently, still trying to turn me inside out so he can understand all the gearings. See exactly what makes me tick.

  I wish it were really that simple. But he remains frustrated and I remain my same old self, thoughts whirling, skin humming, anxiety flying.

  He steps back. Away. Heads for the door.

  I follow him, preparing to lock up behind. Beyond the bar, the street is cast in pools of light and shadow. The air is colder, the pedestrian traffic scant with roamers keeping their heads down and feet fast.

  “I’m gonna focus on potential new friends in Angelique’s world, as well as her missing burner phone,” I tell Lotham as he steps into the night.

  “Can’t buy a prepaid cell in Mass under the age of eighteen.”

  “Never stopped a teenager before.”

  He shakes his head, clearly annoyed by my persistence, but not surprised. “Be careful out there. Bad things can happen, even in daylight.”

  “It’s cute you think I’m waiting for daylight.”

  I shut the door, firing the bolt home while Lotham is still whipping around in shock. A final wave, then I head back to the bar to finish cleaning up, before starting my next adventure.

  CHAPTER 9

  The world would be a better place if more people spent time drinking cheap coffee in church basements. So many think we must share the same beliefs to get along. In my experience, sharing the same fear is a far more effective strategy.

  By the time I find my way down the stairs of the congregational church, I’m slightly out of breath. I claim a folding metal chair toward the back where I can get the lay of the land. The room, like so many I’ve sat in before it, has commercial-grade carpet, a drop ceiling, and walls covered in a combination of children’s art and framed Bible passages. It smells like coffee and mildew.

  Once more, I’m the only white person in the room. Here, however, I can shed the label of outsider. In this room, race, gender, age, ethnicity, income level—these things don’t matter. Interestingly enough, neither does religion. While AA was founded on the principle of God, over the years its lingo has evolved to recognize a more general higher power. Call it what you want; even atheists have some kind of spirituality. The point is we’re all here because we recognize we have a problem with alcohol. We desire sobriety, and understand that, in this matter, we need help to get the job done.

  Already, other AAs are turning to offer a nod of greeting, a hand in welcome. From a grizzled old war vet in an army jacket to a young B
lack kid in a T-shirt to a woman still folding up her cook’s apron. We introduce ourselves, even before the meeting has started. I have a hard time catching all the names or understanding all the accents, but I smile and mean it. Another basic tenet: All are welcome and we welcome all. We are comrades-in-arms, waging a mutual fight with the enemy. And we’ve come together tonight to share the horrors of war, while shoring one another up for another day of battle.

  There’s power in humility. It’s one of the toughest lessons I’ve had to learn. Like the other souls in this room, I live on unsteady ground. Each moment is a choice and for all my good choices, I’m a single mistake away from having to start my journey all over again. As someone who’s relapsed twice, I know better than anyone I can’t afford to be cocky or negligent. No matter where I go, these meetings, this group, these strangers-who-aren’t-really-strangers, are my key to survival.

  Meetings have different focuses. This meeting was listed in the pamphlet as Big Book, meaning we’ll take turns reading out loud, followed by discussion. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve gone through the giant tome at this point, but this format is still one of my favorites. There’s something soothing in revisiting words written eighty years ago that still resonate today. I can already feel my shoulders coming down, the pressure in my chest easing. I’m finally with my own people, all dozen of us young-old-Black-white-rich-poor-devout-atheist drunks.

  An older gentleman sits at the head table. He has the look of a long-timer. He starts us off with the Serenity Prayer, which sounds even more beautiful in French-accented English, then we shift into meeting mode. I take my turn reading out loud, though my voice is slightly shaky. We are at the beginning of the Big Book, the chapter introducing the true nature of the disease and the terrible treachery that lies in the alcoholic mind.

  I agree wholeheartedly. My mind is a traitorous beast I must monitor at all times. All those thinking games I used to play: I need a drink, I deserve a drink, I swear I’ll stop at just one.

  Mad, sad, or glad, as the saying goes. We drink because we’re lonely, we drink because we fell in love. We drink to help ourselves go to sleep, we drink to wake ourselves up.

  I drank because it made me feel alive. Then I drank because I didn’t want to live anymore.

  Now, I sit here. One day at a time.

  It feels to me that meeting-goers fall into two camps—those who find comfort in sharing their stories, and those who find comfort in listening to others share stories that could be their own. I’m in the second camp. I rarely talk during the discussion time or volunteer my journey. I genuinely appreciate hearing about others, though. The ways we are all different and yet alike.

  Tonight, talking about the nature of the disease, allergy, whatever you want to call it, I recognize the classic story elements from my own life. A family legacy of alcoholism. A parent who was a chronic drunk, another parent who was a chronic enabler. Hitting that awkward, anxious phase of high school, not knowing who I was or where I belonged—and consequently tossing back a beer at that party, or stealing a shot of my parents’ liquor before boarding the school bus. That magical melting feeling that immediately followed. That sense of almost primal recognition. I like this. I want this. I need this.

  Even now, I remember those first few drinks with longing. Those blissful early days of love, before I realized just how toxic and abusive the relationship was about to become.

  The army guy shares his story of bottoming out. His wife kicking him to the curb, his kids refusing his calls. Spending months sleeping on the streets till another vet found him and dragged him to the hospital to begin detox. More nods around the room.

  I didn’t bottom out, as much as I crashed in a series of waves—low, lower, lowest. By my twenties, my entire lifestyle revolved around booze. I existed to drink and drank to exist. Mostly I have dark, spiraling memories of neon lights and a strange, hideous laughter ringing in my ears. When I sobered up, it was only to realize that laughter was my own, so of course I drank again.

  Then there was Paul. Holding out his hand. Offering to save me.

  In the beginning it was enough.

  Later came the hard knowledge that no one can save you from yourself.

  The meeting reaches the hour mark. We each produce a dollar, toss it in the basket, then rise to standing. I’m curious if this is a Lord’s Prayer group or not. The traditional meetings end with it, but more and more groups have drifted away. This is a traditional group. I take the hand of an older Black woman to my right, and a cabdriver with an accent I still don’t recognize on my left. We recite the words together and I use the moment to focus on the feel of a neighbor’s hand gripping mine, to remind myself that this hour counts, that my sobriety is worth it. That we are all worth it.

  The meeting breaks up. We help pile up books, pick up coffee cups. The army vet had coffee-prep duty. I move to his side to rinse out the coffeepot while he puts away creamer and sugar. His name is Charlie. I introduce myself again while we clean up together, explaining I’ve just moved into the area.

  The meeting leader comes over. He has two pamphlets in his hand plus a torn piece of notebook paper.

  “A list of daily meetings,” he informs me, handing over the green pamphlet. “More information on upcoming AA events.” The blue pamphlet.

  I wipe my hands with a paper towel and peruse both brochures. The nice thing about major cities—they have robust AA populations. I didn’t have nearly this many choices at my former location. Especially these middle-of-the-night meetings, targeting those of us in the restaurant industry who get off after midnight and need support before heading home.

  “Arnold,” the man says, sticking out his hand again. Copious introductions is an AA way of life. We all know what it’s like to feel lost in a crowd.

  “Frankie. And thank you also for the phone list.” I hold up the notebook sheet.

  “Top one’s mine. Third is Charlie’s.” The vet nods at me. “Second here, that’s Ariel.” He points to the woman who’d been wearing a chef’s apron. She crosses over to shake my hand.

  “You need anything . . .” Arnold gestures to the phone list, indicating I should feel free to use it.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Ten days, ten months, ten years, you never know when the next craving is going to hit, and in those moments, a single connection can make all the difference.

  Even after our relationship ended, I’d often call Paul. One a.m., two a.m., three a.m. It hardly mattered.

  I’d dial his number. Hold the phone next to my ear. Listen to the sound of ringing, followed by the click of someone picking up on the other end.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He knew it was me just as I knew it was him.

  We’d lie in silence together. I’d focus on the sound of his breathing, feel it like his heartbeat against the palm of my hand back in the days when we were still together, and I pressed myself against him in the middle of the night to keep my body, my thoughts, my very sanity from spinning apart.

  Minute into minute. Until it was enough.

  Then I’d hang up the phone and be separate once more.

  Two weeks ago, after Lani Whitehorse’s funeral, when the work was done and my goal accomplished and I lay in bed in my cheap motel room, feeling all the emptiness and sadness crash down upon me, I called his number again.

  Except this time there wasn’t silence on the other end.

  This time, a woman picked up. She said, “You need to stop this.” Then, not unkindly, “You need help.”

  I hung up the phone, my heart racing wildly in my chest. Then I curled up in the fetal position and burst into tears.

  The truth can be like that.

  “Hey,” I say now, addressing the three people before me. “I need to buy a new phone. Something simple and cheap, like a burner. Do you know where I can go?”

  “There’s a T
-Mobile around the corner,” Ariel mentions. She’s buttoning up a light jacket.

  “Sounds expensive.”

  Arnold doesn’t say anything, but Charlie the vet nods. I figured it would be him. Funny, how any addict can spot a dealer. We are crazy-good judges of character. Just don’t ask us about ourselves.

  I hang back with Charlie, as Arnold and Ariel hit the stairs.

  “How cheap you looking?” Charlie asks, moving over to the light switch.

  “Very. I’m just now back to work, so extremely low on funds.”

  “I do some volunteering at the rec center,” Charlie says, flipping out the lights and herding me toward the stairs. “I’ve heard the kids talk about after-hours phones.”

  “After-hours?”

  “After closing hours. You’ll find a guy or two lurking outside the mobile carriers. They have old phones with new SIM cards. Now, I mean old phones. Flip phones, that kind of thing.”

  I nod.

  “Lotta kids pick those up. Can use them for a month or two, at ten, twenty bucks a pop.”

  I’m thinking if I’m a teenage girl embarking on a secret life with limited funds, that’s an excellent price point.

  I drop my voice in a pseudo whisper. “Do I ask for Marco or just look for the guy in the trench coat?”

  Charlie grins at me. I like his beard. It fits nicely with his broad face, hulking build. He would make an excellent teddy bear.

  “Little thing like you needs to be careful asking around. Some of these kids are in the life for sure.”

  I’m assuming he means gangbangers. Which makes sense. Additional funding for illegal activities.

  “I’m not threatening,” I assure him. “Any kid looking to build his rep is hardly going to bother with a scrawny middle-aged white woman. Frankly, it’d be too embarrassing.”

  Charlie grins again. “Not so wrong, little lady. Not so wrong.”

  “You work at the rec center?” I ask as we exit the church. He locks up behind us.

  “Volunteer three afternoons a week. Try to do my part to set these boys straight. I’ve lived here most of my life. Seen the good, the bad, the ugly. I know what they’re going through.”