Before She Disappeared

by Lisa Gardner

  I head for Dunkin’ Donuts first. I need the coffee as well as the advice.

  Given the late-morning hour, I’m the only customer, the shocking white woman passing through the glass doors. I recognize the crew of older Black women behind the counter from before, including the manager who’d helped me with directions to Le Foyer. Most of them appear to remember me, too. It makes it easy to order a large coffee, then plunk down my map and request assistance.

  This time they all gather round, and I get bus routes and pickup times.

  “Where you living now, girl?” the manager, Charadee, asks me. She is tall and round and somehow impressive despite the brown-and-fuchsia uniform.

  “I’m working at Stoney’s, live above the bar.”

  “You a bartender?” Arched brow. A silver star winks at the end. Stud or sticker, I can’t decide.

  “I make an excellent mojito,” I inform her. “You should come by some time. I owe you for the help with directions.”

  Charadee nods at me. The other women appear pleased.

  “Why the rec center, hun? You got kids?”

  “No, but I’ve heard good things and want to learn more. I’m an alcoholic,” I volunteer, having learned that in many situations it helps break the ice. “I was wondering if there was something I could do to help. You know, having been there, done that, myself.”

  Nodding heads. Charadee flips over my map and jots down some notes. She has a large looping script that is much prettier than mine.

  She murmurs some questions in what I assume is French to her companions. Various French replies produce more scrawled notes. In the end, Charadee divides my paper into three sections. The first contains numbers, the second contains names, and below the midway line dividing the page are a whole mess of names and numbers.

  She walks me through it: the bus schedule, which I’d recognized; the names of her “boys” at the center, who can help me out; and a list of the best restaurants.

  “Skinny girl like you needs to eat,” Charadee provides as explanation. In a culture that prides itself on curves, I must look particularly pathetic. Honestly, I’ve been begging God for breasts since the day I turned thirteen. Any time now.

  I thank her sincerely. High fives to all.

  There’s a chime as a car pulls up to the drive-thru. They return to their stations and I head once more for the door, armed with coffee and my new and improved local guide.

  * * *

  —

  I get on and off the right bus. It makes me smile so brightly even the bus driver, a stoic Black man who appears to be somewhere between old and ancient, grins back. I smile larger and he shakes his head. “You take care of yourself, you hear,” he says, and the fact I got him to speak feels like my second triumph of the day.

  Forget Detective Lotham. Maybe I’m growing on the entire population of Mattapan.

  My heady sense of success lasts until I make it to the front of the vast rec center complex. Again, much larger than I expected, and given the surrounding park, tennis courts, and running paths, nothing like I imagined. Sure, the rec center looks slightly tired and stooped, a giant metal hangar that had probably been very impressive in its heyday, and appears in need of a good power-washing and paint job. But the size, the access to the outdoors—I’ve visited plenty of neighborhoods with less.

  Of course, I can’t figure out how to get in. If what my new AA bud Charlie said was true, the center’s hours would be mostly after school, evenings, and weekends. Which probably explains the locked front doors. However, a taped sign advises deliveries around back.

  I’m a delivery. Of sorts.

  I wander around the massive building. This close, I can see the pitting in the metal side panels, more signs of age. I’d guess the faded blue structure was built in the seventies or eighties. Maybe some government initiative to provide more opportunities for inner-city youths. I wouldn’t mind having these paths to run on. Or basketball courts or soccer fields. They are all empty now, but I’d guess around three in the afternoon, this place really comes alive.

  I discover a side door, give it a tug. No luck. Keep on walking, all the way behind the building now. A second set of double doors, twin to the first. This time when I pull, the tinted glass door gives way. I step inside the cool, shadowed depths, seeking signs of human life.

  There’s a check-in counter directly across from me. When I get closer, I see bins with various kinds of sporting equipment stacked behind it, locked behind metal grates. So this is where the kids check out the goods before heading out into the vast green park.

  I follow the shadowed corridor deeper into the building. Given the lack of overhead lights and the deep hush broken only by the sound of my tennis shoes on concrete, the whole place is slightly ominous. Outside was filled with promise, but as for the inside . . . I spent a few days in county lockup once, and this makes me think of that. I wonder if the kids feel the same.

  I walk past double doors leading to an indoor gym, but both are locked. Next up, I spy what appears to be a weight room, followed by some kind of kitchen area. Again, all shuttered tight. With the exception of the open back door, they appear to take security seriously around here. Belatedly, I realize I should’ve looked for cameras, outside as well as in. I wonder if I’m being recorded as I continue my path down the central corridor, still searching for signs of life.

  Next up, a smaller gym with mats on the floor and a boxing ring in the middle. It makes me think of Detective Lotham, and I wonder if he ever came here to help out. Certainly, Officer O’Shaughnessy must know this place well, being the community liaison.

  Voices. Finally. I follow the sounds to the end of the corridor, where light floods out from two separate offices.

  I poke my head into the doorway on the right first, encountering two African American men, one short, one tall.

  “Hi,” I say.

  They stare at me.

  “Are you in charge here?”

  They stare at me.

  I consult my notes from my new Dunkin’ Donuts friends. “Is one of you Dutch? Or maybe Antoine?”

  “Dutch,” the shorter one concedes. He wears a whistle around his neck. I didn’t know that kind of thing was done anymore.

  “Excellent. Charadee recommended that I talk to you about the rec center programs. I just moved into the area and would like to learn more.”

  I deliver my best I’m-completely-harmless smile, then I stick out my hand. They take turns shaking it, which seems to break the ice.

  “I understand you run an after-school program for local youths?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The shorter man, Dutch, confirms. His accent sounds pure Boston, no trace of immigrant anything.

  “Please, call me Frankie. And you are?” I turn to the taller man, who appears roughly forty years old and has the erect bearing of a natural leader.

  “Frédéric Lagudu,” the man says, with a trill of sand and sea. I gravitate toward him immediately.

  “I’m a friend of the Badeau family. I understand from Ms. Violette that her niece and nephew came here often.”

  “You are here about Angelique Badeau?” Frédéric asks, dark eyes narrowing.

  “Yes.”

  “She did not go missing here. She was back in school. That is what they say.”

  “They say?”

  He flushes. “What I know to be true.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, too,” I assure him. “I’m curious about the summer before school started. When Angelique and her brother, Emmanuel, were both here.”

  The two men exchange glances again. I understand their natural distrust. I’m not the police, which makes me an unknown variable.

  “Ms. Violette put me in touch with Officer O’Shaughnessy,” I volunteer now. “He recommended I talk with you.”

  A stretch, but effective. Both men rel
ax. O’Shaughnessy probably did help out around here, as I’d suspected. And while it might be a white lie, even if the men called O’Shaughnessy directly to check me out, I doubt he’d throw me under the bus. I’ve stirred up more activity in Angelique’s case in the past two days than the BPD did in the past two months.

  “I know Angelique and her brother,” Frédéric confirms now. “Please. Come to my office. We can talk there.”

  I think that’s a marvelous offer. I follow him across the hall, to a small, straightforward setup. Desk, ancient computer, coat rack, half-dead office plant. Frédéric has a brightly framed poster of a coat of arms on the wall. A palm tree upright in the middle of two golden cannons and what appear to be bayonets, cannonballs, anchors, bugles, all in patriotic colors of green, blue, and red. Below it reads L’Union Fait la Force.

  “Our national emblem,” Frédéric tells me, following my gaze. “From Haiti, the country of my heart.”

  “When did you immigrate?”

  “Twenty years ago.”

  Meaning he wasn’t caught up in the current visa turmoil of the earthquake survivors. “Do you still have family back on the island?”

  “One brother, two sisters.”

  “They don’t want to come here?”

  “Maybe their children. For school. It’s better here than there.”

  “I understand Angelique and her brother are good students. And Angelique is looking forward to studying medicine at a U.S. college.”

  Frédéric shrugs. “I’m the executive director. We serve over five hundred families through our various programs. I know all a little, but none very well.”

  “How does summer camp work? Do the kids sign up for specialized activities, something?”

  Frédéric lays it out for me. Youths register for specific programs based on age and interest. After consulting his computer, he can tell me Angelique signed up for fashion camp while Emmanuel pursued basketball. I’m not sure why future doctor Angelique would choose fashion till Frédéric produces the program description. Apparently, fashion camp involves lots of sketching and art. Remembering the highly detailed medical drawings I’d found in in the teen’s collection, that makes sense. The activity director is a woman named Lillian, who is an art teacher from a local middle school and works for the rec center during the summer. Frédéric doesn’t want to give me her contact information but promises he’ll pass along my phone number to her.

  He pulls up the program registration, showing eighteen kids: sixteen girls, two boys. Sure enough, Marjolie’s name is right after Angelique’s. Most likely they signed up together, the way friends do.

  “Do you remember Angelique hanging out with anyone in particular?” I ask now, not giving away Marjolie’s name.

  Frédéric pauses, leaning back his long frame and steepling elegant fingers together as he considers the matter. “There was one girl. They sat together. Also Haitian. Shorter, pretty. They seemed to know each other well. But this other girl didn’t care about fashion class so much. She spent more of her time in the gym.”

  “Like playing basketball or something?”

  “Like watching the boys playing basketball.” He arches a suggestive brow.

  “Boyfriend, or boy crazy?”

  “One boy in particular. I once had to interrupt a . . . social situation that had gone too far.”

  I take that to mean Marjolie had been making out with said love interest in some random corner. Frankly, if I’d been at summer camp in this vast building at that age . . . Had to be secluded spots everywhere and I bet the kids knew every single one.

  “What about Angelique? Ever interrupt one of her . . . social situations?”

  Frédéric shakes his head.

  “Did she have a tendency to drift out of her program to, say, watch basketball, boxing, baseball, whatever?” I’m pursuing the theory that Angelique had a secret romance. Especially with her best friend distracted by some basketball player, maybe Angelique had felt compelled to do likewise.

  “She would go on occasion to watch her brother,” Frédéric supplies. “During breaks, though. She never missed class. At least not that I ever heard, and it is my job to hear such things.”

  His picture of Angelique is consistent with everything else I’ve been told about the teen. For now, I table the boyfriend idea and return to my own thought from the night before: “What about another girl? A new friend Angelique bonded with while Marjolie was off drooling in the gym?”

  Frédéric frowns, hesitates. “This was two summers ago . . .”

  “And yet Angelique went missing shortly thereafter. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

  He winces. I can’t even imagine how hard his job must be, trying to both corral and inspire hundreds of at-risk teens. Wanting to make a difference, knowing there are limits. And then when one of the kids who by all accounts should make it simply vanishes one fall afternoon . . . I have a feeling Frédéric has done nothing but replay the memories he has of Angelique over and over again.

  “I wish I had noticed more,” he concedes now. “Paid more attention, made more effort. But Angelique, she was a good kid. She came on time. She stayed with her program. She produced many beautiful drawings. Lillian posted several around the halls. I remember congratulating Angelique on her work. She seemed shy, but again, not one to get into trouble. My time, my job, is spent more with those teens.” He shrugs. “It is regretful, but it is what it is.”

  “You have problems with gang activity here?” I change gears.

  “We are zero tolerance. Any gang signs, colors, activity leads to immediate expulsion. The kids know. Off the grounds, yes, there are problems. But when they enter this property . . . If they want to shoot hoops, they play nice. It works more effectively than you think.”

  “Are there times all the kids intermix? I mean, regardless of fashion camp versus boxing camp or whatnot?”

  “Lunch is within each group. It makes it easier for us to monitor. But there are breaks during the day. Kids wander. Some might go watch a part of a soccer game or gather to enjoy the sun outside. They are teens, and we want the programs to be fun, not just . . .” He struggles for the word.

  “Glorified lockup?” I volunteer.

  He sighs but doesn’t disagree.

  “Can I get a copy of this list?” I point to the registration list for fashion camp.

  “The police have it.”

  “I don’t want to bother them. I’m trying to find new leads to move us forward, not make them go backward.”

  He hesitates again, but my argument is a decent one. He prints me out a fresh list.

  “One last thing. If you don’t mind. A simple memory exercise. You know Angelique’s face?”

  He nods.

  “Now picture her, here, the last time you saw her. Where is she?”

  It takes him a moment, but he complies, even going so far as to close his eyes. “Angelique is sitting outside on a yellow bench. She has her sketch pad on her lap, her head bent over as she draws. As I walk by, making my rounds, she doesn’t look up but continues to sketch, very fast, very focused. I can hear the scratch of charcoal against the page. I remember thinking she looked like a true artist, with a vision in her head she must capture immediately, before it disappeared forever. I was impressed.”

  “Could you see the drawing?”

  “No, but she was wearing her hair down. She had thick ringlets that hung in front of her like a curtain.”

  “Were there other kids around her?”

  Silence as he digs deeper into his recollection. “I see three boys. They have a hacky sack and are kicking it around. Two more girls, sitting on another bench. One is giggling. There are other kids lounging in the grass. The weather is very beautiful.”

  “Who is closest to Angelique? A boy? A girl?”

  “I see only the three boys
and they are busy with their game.”

  “Anyone else? Someone near Angelique, or maybe—like you—noticing Angelique even if she doesn’t notice them?”

  Slowly, he says: “There’s another girl. Seated on the ground further down, her back against the building. She is also drawing, but she is in the shade, not the sun. She is looking in Angelique’s direction. She is watching Angelique draw. When I walk by, however, the girl ducks her head quickly. Too quickly, I think. I’m about to stop, push a little, then I hear yelling in the soccer field. I turn and head there.”

  “What does this other girl look like?”

  “Another teen. I remember seeing her in the fashion camp as well.” Frédéric opens his eyes, shakes his head. “But I don’t remember her face. I’m not even sure I ever saw it fully. I could always find her in a crowd, however, by looking for her hat. Every day, regardless of weather or conditions, she wore the same red ball cap. And yes, now that you mention it, she was often staring at Angelique.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I’ve barely left the rec center property, heading back down the main boulevard with a vague notion of finding my bus stop, when a white car goes roaring past me in the opposite lane. It slams on its brakes, performs a hard U-turn, and zips up beside me.

  “Get in,” Detective Lotham orders.

  I stare at him for a moment, not trying to be belligerent, but definitely disoriented.

  “I know you like to walk,” he growls.

  “Actually, I was headed for the bus.”

  “Stop being so damn contrarian and get the hell in.”

  The moment he calls me contrarian I naturally want to protest. But the urgency in his voice, underlaid with anger, and maybe even a hint of fear, catches my attention. I get in. I’ve no sooner shut the door than he floors the gas. The sudden acceleration slams me back against my seat and I scramble for a seat belt.

  “What do you know about counterfeiting?” he asks me, both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. He’s leaning forward, as if throwing his whole body into his aggressive driving.