by Lisa Gardner
I place the water in front of Lotham. He takes a sip. At the end of the bar, one of the regulars flags me down to settle up his bill. I’m grateful for the distraction.
More beer here. A final round of rum punch there. Clearing plates. Cleaning tables. Moving, moving, moving.
I really would like a drink right now—and that, as much as anything, pisses me off. Time to get over my own fucking self.
By the time I return to the bar, my nerves have settled and Lotham has finished half his water.
“Food?” I ask him.
“Honestly, I’ve had nothing but grease for days. What I could use is a salad, but that’s not exactly on the menu.”
“Viv has been known to do special orders. For her favorites.”
“Viv, from the kitchen?”
“That’s her. And judging by the way she was looking at you, you’re already one of her favorites.”
That earns me a grin. Briefly, the detective appears ten years younger. His job is a burden he never sets down. It is both extremely attractive and kind of sad. Trying to save the world can be as much a compulsion as drinking, except Lotham doesn’t have a twelve-step program to save him from himself. I wonder if he will burn out, become embittered with the job, the life he never took the time to build. Maybe one day he will envy me, but I doubt it.
I pop into the kitchen. Ask Viv if she wouldn’t mind making a garden salad for a friend. That earns me so many cackles and knowing winks I have to leave before I start blushing again.
But the salad comes and the detective turns his attention to his food. The bar empties out and soon enough, Stoney is there, ready to lock the front door. He eyes the detective questioningly.
“He’s going to stay for a bit.”
Stoney nods, locks up, then pockets the key before making a point of disappearing to his office. I don’t know how to close out the register, so eventually he’ll have to take care of that, but for now I start stacking chairs.
Without a word, Lotham slips off the table and carries his plate to the kitchen.
“Hello, handsome!” Forget about me, he’s officially made Viv’s night.
“Thank you, ma’am. That was exactly what I needed.”
“You come again, let me know and I’ll make you a steak. Then you’ll know exactly what you’ve needed.”
From the back room, I hear Stoney make a strangling sound. Then Lotham reappears, looking slightly wide-eyed and red-faced. At least it’s not just me. I hand him a broom. As long as he’s here, he might as well be useful.
He starts from the back, working his way to the front while I wipe down the last of the tables and finish with the chairs.
“Did you learn more about Livia Samdi?” I ask him finally.
“She’s definitely missing, and the family definitely doesn’t care for police involvement.”
“Wait, is that your way of saying there might be value to my particular approach?”
“A good cop would never encourage civilian involvement in a case.”
Which is not the same thing as no.
“When did Livia run away?” I continue.
“January. Nearly three months after Angelique.”
“And the circumstances?”
“Went to school and never came home again.”
“That sounds suspiciously familiar. And they never contacted police?”
“According to the mom, Roseline, it wasn’t the first time Livia had disappeared. Sometimes the girl wouldn’t come home on Friday but would show up to school on Monday like nothing happened. Lost weekends. Even a week here and there. Let’s just say, given the . . . nature . . . of the household, I’m surprised they noticed that much.”
“What did Livia take with her?”
“That’s the thing. According to the mom, Livia’s clothes, personal possessions are mostly accounted for. She didn’t own a computer, just a cell phone, which disappeared with her. We tried pinging it with no luck. But we’re now pulling a record of calls and texts from the provider. Will be interesting to see if the phone is genuinely no longer in use, or just activated in short intervals.”
“Had they heard of Angelique Badeau?”
“The mom recognized the name from the news, that’s it.”
“So they didn’t know she and Livia were friends?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure the mom knew any of Livia’s friends. Or hobbies, or favorite color. Not that kind of family.”
“In other words, the complete opposite of Angelique’s family.” I pause, my hands still on a back of a chair. “I wonder what brought the girls together? Opposites attract? Angelique the caretaker thinking she could help out with Livia’s sad life?”
Lotham shrugs.
“Livia have a history of drinking and drugs?”
“Given the family, I would say yes to both. But they aren’t talking about it.”
“Maybe a school guidance counselor can tell you more.”
“Which is where I’ll be first thing in the morning.”
“So much for sticking around for a late breakfast,” I grumble.
That earns me the detective’s full attention. His eyes darken. He stands ten feet away, still holding the broom, but there’s suddenly not enough air in the room.
“This is what we do know,” he says softly. “Angelique is alive, and she needs help.”
I nod.
“She is somehow connected to Livia Samdi, another missing girl. And we are absolutely, positively, not mentioning anything about red hats to the press.”
“Your hold-back detail.”
“Not to mention, we don’t need dozens of sightings of people in red ball caps tying up resources.”
“What about Angelique’s appearance today? Will you ramp back up the investigation?”
“We are taking the sighting very seriously. But as far as the public knows, we have no confirmation that was Angelique in the store today. Which works well with the clerk’s maybe, kind of, not really sure statement.”
“You don’t want to involve the public?” I ask in surprise. “Reissue the Amber Alert?”
Lotham leans against the broom. “Angelique clearly has some freedom of movement but doesn’t feel like she can come home—”
“She needs help! Help us. She said it herself.”
“Exactly. She feels threatened and in danger. Until we understand more about that threat, who and what it involves, the safest approach is to follow her lead and keep things quiet. We’re adding more officers to the case, don’t worry. But our official position, which I need to know you will support, is that there’s nothing new to see here.”
“Don’t insult me,” I tell him harshly. I return to stacking chairs. I honestly can’t decide what I think of this.
“You’re going to inform Angelique’s family of the new sighting,” I say after another moment.
“The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Are you kidding me?” Now he does have my attention. “You have a significant lead and you’re not going to notify Guerline and Emmanuel?”
“When we know more, have something specific to share—”
“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t even have these latest discoveries without Emmanuel. The family trusts you, they came to you—”
“Actually, Emmanuel came to you—”
“And you wonder why? They knew then that you were holding back, and it did nothing but fuel further mistrust.”
Lotham remains calm and controlled: “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never lied to a family. Never omitted a detail, buried a lead. You do this work, you know how it is.”
I scowl. But I can’t look him in the eye and we both know it. I’ve made this judgment call before myself. I just don’t agree it’s the right approach with Angelique’s aunt and brother.
&nb
sp; I stack more chairs. Lotham returns to sweeping. Stoney appears and tends to the register.
Viv finishes first. Her husband no sooner appears on the other side of the smoked-glass doors than Viv comes bustling out, putting on her jacket. Telepathy after so many years of marriage? Or does he text her upon arrival? I don’t know why I prefer the more romantic option.
Stoney takes off next. One last glance between Lotham and me. Then with some sort of mental shrug, he disappears out the side door. Lotham puts away the broom. I finish up cleaning the bar area.
Then that’s it. Work is done. The customers and other employees gone. There’s just this man and me, and a homicidal cat upstairs.
Lotham walks toward me. He’s light on his feet. A boxer. In hindsight, I should’ve known instantly.
He stops right in front of me, and I can’t help myself. I raise my hands. I dance my fingertips across his face, feeling out the line of his jaw, the soft, ragged edge of his mangled ear, then find another scar, just over his left eye. He has ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Why do men always have the best eyelashes?
His buzzed hair scrapes against my palm. Closer in texture to his end-of-day stubble and nothing at all like his silky eyebrows. He has furrowed lines in his forehead. I trace each one. Another sign of his stressful job? I like the mystery of those lines. What they communicate but cannot say.
My hands fall to his shoulders. Heavily muscled, rigid to the touch. Same with his arms. A boxer who still spends plenty of time in the ring. Up this close, I can see the pulse pounding at the base of his throat, hear his ragged breath.
I whisper my lips across the hollow of his throat. He smells of sandalwood, tastes like salt. The cleaned-up version of the man, but I would find him compelling either way.
“Good night, Frankie,” he says.
“Good night, Detective.” Then I raise my lips and kiss him properly.
For a moment, he unleashes. A storm of wild attraction and raw power as he crushes me against him. His mouth devours. His tongue ravages and I respond eagerly. This is not drunken fumbling or mindless fucking. This is feeling your feels.
I don’t protest when he pulls away, releases my arms, and steps back.
“Good night, Frankie,” he says again.
“Good night, Detective.”
Then I let him out the front door, and watch him walk away.
CHAPTER 19
It is a bright, sunny morning as I head down the final few blocks to the Samdis’ apartment. Even with daylight on my side, I find myself hunching my shoulders and gazing around nervously. If Mattapan is a mix of good and bad neighborhoods, this isn’t one of the good ones.
Rusted chain-link fences buckle and gape, revealing modest yards long on neglect—abandoned piles of battered kids’ toys, drifts of dead shrubs, borders of shattered beer bottles and used condoms. Each triple-decker seems determined to appear even more broken down than its neighbor. I honestly can’t tell who’s winning.
This isn’t the place to be after dark. I’m not even sure it’s somewhere I should be now, as I feel eyes starting to fall upon me, and more and more human-sized silhouettes appear at the windows to monitor my progress. I am definitely an outsider here.
Deep breath. In through my mouth. Exhaling through my nose. Not the first time I’ve been through this. Stay calm, relaxed, focus. I’m not a threat. I have no issues. Just a couple of questions for the family.
On my right, the front door opens and three African American males come strolling out, crossing their arms over their muscled chests and pinning me with their best thousand-yard stare. Followed by similar movement from the house across the street. Then up ahead to the right. Then left.
Am I this unwanted here?
I arrive at the Samdis’ building, which is neither the best nor worst on the block. The narrow triple-decker has shed huge flakes of dark green paint, while the stacked front deck sags dangerously forward. A giant piece of plywood patches a hole along the right side. Two more are nailed on the roof.
I don’t have to open the front gate. It’s already collapsed, the front corner gouged deep into the earth. I shimmy around it, kicking a deflated soccer ball that plows into a pile of empty booze bottles. I startle from the noise, snag my jacket on the rusty chain link, and tear a hole.
“Shit!” I curse, then belatedly catch myself. Relaxed and focused. The family I need to speak with are looking for reasons not to like me, excuses not to help. My job is not to give them one.
I pick my way up the front steps. One of the boards is so rotted, I skip over it completely, landing harder than I would like on the one above. I feel it shake upon impact, and clamber up the remaining stairs in a burst of adrenaline.
The second I hit the landing, the front door opens. A young Black male stands before me in a white tank top, and sagging dark jeans. He wears his hair in a million braids, curving back from his face before falling like a curtain to his shoulders. He has a giant diamond stud in one ear, and enough ink sleeving his forearms and twining around his neck to serve as a second shirt. Even looking straight at him, it’s impossible to see behind the confusion of tattoos, jewelry, and hair extensions. Urban camouflage.
“We don’t want you here,” he states. His eyes are dark and flat.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Samdi,” I say.
“We don’t want you here.”
“It’s regarding her daughter, Livia.”
“Get the fuck off my property.”
“Do you own the whole house?” I ask him curiously. “What a great accomplishment. And at such a young age, too.”
A single slow blink. “No white bitches wanted here.”
“Okay, but I’m a cheap white bitch. Surely that counts for something? My specialty is locating missing persons, free of charge. I’m already in the area looking for Angelique Badeau. Maybe you know her?”
“Fuck off.”
“Are you Livia’s brother? Uncle? Random acquaintance? I understand from the police the family believes Livia ran away. I respectfully disagree. I think her vanishing act has something to do with Angelique’s disappearance and I’d like to help both of them.”
“You hard of hearing, lady? Go. The fuck. Away.” Two steps forward now. His tough words aren’t getting the job done, so he’s throwing his body behind them. He’s five ten and a solid one eighty of sculpted muscle. I have exactly . . . nothing . . . on him.
“I’m here for Mrs. Samdi,” I repeat, more quickly now. “If she wants me to go, I’ll go. But not before I see her. Look, I’m not here to jam you up or judge your family. I don’t work for the police, the press, anyone. I’m here solely for the missing and I need just a few minutes of your mother’s time. Five. Five minutes. Who knows, by the end, maybe both she and I can do some good.”
The boy—who has to be Livia’s older brother—opens his mouth again. His hands are fisted, his throat corded. I’m already leaning back, wishing I’d left about two seconds earlier, when a tired, ragged voice comes from inside the house.
“Let her in, Johnson.”
My greeter scowls, loosens his fists.
“Johnson?” I mouth at him, one brow arched.
“J.J.,” he snaps back.
J.J. lets me pass by, nodding across the street at the many loitering, heavily muscled youths still keeping watch. His friends? His gang? It doesn’t really matter. O’Shaughnessy had pegged Livia’s brother as a drug dealer. Which makes it in my own best interest to keep my head down and eyes on the floor as he leads me down the hall to the rear of the building.
We emerge into an open area, hazy with cigarette smoke. To my right is a kitchen, with almost every available surface covered with discarded food containers and supersized bottles of booze. Something big, brown, and shiny skitters across the floor. Then two more somethings.
I swallow slowly. Going from Guerline’s brigh
t-colored, homey apartment to this makes it hard to believe Livia and Angelique had much in common. And yet . . .
I turn my attention to the card table positioned against the wall on the left. A gaunt African American woman sits there, her face wreathed in smoke from her burning cigarette. She wears a faded blue floral housedress and the heavily aged features of a lifetime drinker.
I pull out the folding chair across from her, and have a seat. “Roseline Samdi?”
The woman takes a long drag, then taps the ash off the end of her cigarette in the remnants of a beer can. “You’re the woman? The one looking for Badeau?”
Roseline’s first few words sound typically Boston. But when she delivers Badeau, her island heritage gives her away. The name comes out both hard and soft, an echo of palm trees and drifting clouds.
“Did you immigrate as a child, or more recently?” I ask. I’m trying hard not to wrinkle my nose against the stench of spoiled food, unwashed clothes, and human sweat. If I lived here, I’d smoke all day, too, just to cover the smell.
“When I was little. I came with my mamè, thirty years ago.”
It takes me a moment to figure out that Roseline isn’t that much older than me. But to look at her . . .
On impulse, I reach over and clasp her hand. She’s too startled to pull away.
“Nine years sober. Nine years, seven months. I still miss it all the time. It sucks, doesn’t it? To want something so badly, when you know you shouldn’t.”
She doesn’t speak right away. Her skin is jaundiced. Her expression bleak. But in her eyes, I think I see a flash of gratitude.
“I made it a whole year once. Can’t say it was my best year, spending every damn day hurtin’ and wantin’. But afterwards.” She takes another drag of her cigarette, nods slowly. “Afterwards, I was sorry I let it go.”
“We’ve all been there.”
“So that’s it, then? You’re an addict, I’m an addict. I might as well tell you everything?”