by Lisa Gardner
“What I lack in discipline I make up for in personality.”
He gives me a look.
“Hey, I’m confessing my sins up front. Offering you money back. As employees go, that’s not too shabby.”
He seems to accept this.
“I even clean up after your homicidal cat.”
“Piper’s a good worker. Complains less than you do.”
“I haven’t bitten off anyone’s toe lately.”
He shrugs. Apparently that’s not as impressive a feat as I’d hoped. “You gonna bring that little girl home?” he asks me.
I’m feeling reckless. “Hell, I’m gonna bring two little girls home: Angelique Badeau and Livia Samdi.”
He hands over the fifty bucks in tip money, cash I sorely need. “You do that, and we’re even.”
“You love this community, don’t you?”
“It’s my home.”
“I don’t have a home, but I still know what you mean.”
We both finish up our work in silence. Then Stoney exits stage left and I climb up the stairs to my apartment. I meant what I said to Lotham; today had been a long day. Best to retire early.
Yet I still check my phone. No calls, no messages. I feel restless, thrumming with the edge of unfinished business. What has Lotham learned about Livia Samdi’s other brother? Or what about possible bank accounts for Angelique’s alter ego, Tamara Levesque? I hate being in the dark.
Pacing my tiny apartment back and forth, back and forth. Feeling my restlessness grow, my skin start to tingle, my scalp pull tight. Maybe I should head to a meeting. Nights like this are exactly when I need a meeting.
No need for a fucking police escort. I’ve lived tougher, seen neighborhoods more dangerous. I wasn’t lying to Lotham when I said as much earlier. I can do this.
I pull back my curtain. I stare at the street outside.
That’s when I see him.
Standing there, directly in a wash of light where I’m certain to spot him. Very tall, lanky build, red sweatsuit, multiple gold chains. His hair is pulled back from his face in an intricate pattern, revealing a face that is lean, callous. Cruel.
He stares right at me. I see him. He sees me.
I let the curtain drop. I tumble back onto my bed.
I think wildly, I need Piper. Where’s my attack cat?
But when I check under the bed, Piper’s gone.
I order myself not to panic. I tell myself I’m strong and capable and I’ve been in deep shit before. Then I nervously work the lock of my door, easing it open long enough for me to creep downstairs and grab Stoney’s bat. As long as I’m there, I check the front door—still secured. Then the side door—also bolted. The side door is unmarked and solid metal. No one is getting through that. The bar’s front door, however . . . Smoked glass. It can be shattered. Would probably set off an alarm, but maybe noise doesn’t matter. A determined predator on the hunt. In, out, done.
I recheck the locks, then head upstairs, holding the bat stiffly before me.
Once in my apartment, I hit the bolt lock. I gingerly move the curtain back. I see retro dude still standing on the sidewalk, staring up at me.
I should call Lotham. And say what? Livia’s evil older brother is watching me? And why haven’t I heard from Lotham anyway? Surely Boston’s finest has learned something by now. So why the radio silence?
One a.m. Two a.m. I sit on the bed facing the door, bat across my knees, phone within easy reach.
I doze off. Dreams of blood and Paul and screams so primal they shiver up my spine. I’m chasing Angelique Badeau down a long corridor, never able to catch up. Except then I turn a corner and the tracksuit man is there pointing a gun.
“Couldn’t leave it alone,” he says.
He pulls the trigger. Angelique screams and falls to the ground, a bloody hole in her gut. He pulls the trigger again and now I’m falling to the ground, a bloody hole in my gut. A third booming shot. Paul screams the loudest, blood everywhere, as he collapses beside us.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp.
“But you killed us.” Now they’re both angry and it’s all my fault and so many things I should’ve done differently, should’ve done better. I’m falling down down down. Into an abyss of tortured souls and clasping hands and guilty consciences, mostly my own.
A cat appears, growling low. She leaps into the fray, slashing out with her claws. I feel pain, startlingly harsh, refreshingly clear, just as I bolt upright, clutching my arm against my chest. My phone is ringing.
I spy Piper, now on my bed, twitching her tail crankily as she grooms her right front paw. I glance down at my forearms to discover fresh scratches.
I don’t have time to consider the matter. Three a.m. My phone still chiming. I answer it.
At long last, I hear Lotham’s voice.
He says, “We have a body.”
And just like that, I’ve failed again.
CHAPTER 29
Lotham sits in the rear booth. He’s wearing yesterday’s snazzy ensemble with his tie loosened and dress shirt wrinkled. He looks gutted.
I pour him a cup of hot coffee. When he stares at it blankly, I head to the bar, grab a bottle of rum, and add a shot. Just because I’m an alcoholic doesn’t mean other people can’t drink.
I return the rum, take a seat across from him. I’m still wearing my oversized T-shirt with a pair of men’s boxers. They were Paul’s, once, but we’re not here to discuss that.
“Speak,” I order.
“What happened to your arm?”
I look down at the blood-crusted gashes. “Piper.”
“Did you try to spoon with her or something?”
“Or something. Speak.”
Lotham takes a fortifying gulp of rum-laced coffee. His hand is shaking. I’m not sure he notices till he tries to set the mug down and sloshes coffee over the edge. “Sorry.”
I wait.
“I didn’t even know she was missing,” he mutters at last. “Fifteen-year-old girl, and we didn’t even know she was lost till a couple of days ago.”
Which is how I learn we’re talking about Livia Samdi, not Angelique Badeau.
“Where did you find the body?”
“Franklin Park. Dumped behind a tree.”
I wince. “Harsh.”
“She was fully clothed,” he says.
I get it. There are other options. “Cause of death?”
“Bruises around the neck. Petechial hemorrhages in the eyes.”
“Strangulation.”
“Park was the dump site. Forensic gurus will have to perform some magic to see if we can narrow in on place of death. Homeless guy flagged down a patrol car. Poor man was just looking for a place to crash for the night, when he found a body instead.”
I nod. Lotham keeps talking.
“Initial analysis, wherever Livia had been staying, it wasn’t on the streets. She was too clean for that. She was dressed simply—jeans, a Patriots T-shirt, sneakers. None of the items were brand-new, but none appeared that old either. She was noticeably thin, her fingernails chewed down to the nubs, her back molars worn from repeated grinding. Definite signs of chronic stress, according to the ME, though not necessarily physical abuse. No bruises, fresh lacerations, healing fractures, that sort of thing. She looked pretty good, all things considered. You know, other than her neck.” Lotham exhaled heavily, chugged more coffee.
“Angelique?”
“Homeless man didn’t see anyone in the area. We’re still reviewing video footage now. But that section of the park is off the beaten path. I’d say whoever dumped her knew what he was doing.”
It’s such a sad term. Dumping. Like trash or unwanted goods, instead of a teenage girl.
“Livia’s family?” I ask.
“I did the notification myself. Her mother didn’
t appear surprised at all. Just flat—that parent who’s always feared the worst and now doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“I know how it is.”
“J.J. was there.”
“Johnson,” I say. I don’t know why. Just to get in one last dig.
“Of the two, he was the more emotional. Initial response, stricken, followed by pissed off, followed by driving his fist into the wall.”
This gives me pause. “He didn’t suspect his sister was dead?”
“No. More to the point, he was enraged. Whatever’s going on with that family, I would bet my shield Johnson didn’t want his sister harmed. If he even knows what happened to her.”
“You ask about an older brother?”
“I know my job,” Lotham speaks up sharply.
He’s had a rough night, so I let it slide. He takes another gulp of spiked coffee. “Fuck,” he says at last.
I can’t disagree with that, so I say nothing at all.
“J.J. had already taken off by the time I broached the subject of an older Samdi sibling; I thought being alone would make it easier to talk with Roseline, but she shut down. If she hadn’t kept sucking the life out of each cigarette, I’m not sure I would’ve believed she was even there. I’ll take another run at her later, but given her love of the police . . .”
Lotham isn’t asking for me to get involved. As a detective he would never ask for a civilian to insert herself in an investigation, let alone visit a residence where she’s already been shot at. And yet, that’s my mental takeaway. Mrs. Samdi doesn’t talk to cops. Meaning if we want to learn about Livia’s mysterious other brother . . .
“Red baseball cap?” I ask.
“Not with the body.”
In other words, Angelique is still wearing it. “Something’s changed,” I murmur.
“No shit.”
“Seriously. Angelique disappeared eleven months ago. Livia a couple of months after that. But it’s only been in the past few weeks that Angelique’s resurfaced. Sending a coded message for her brother. Dropping a fake ID. The girls were clearly being kept alive for some purpose. Producing semi-decent fake licenses, I don’t know.” Though even as I say the words out loud, that sounds like a dubious master plan. What kind of criminal enterprise kidnaps two girls and holds them against their will to manufacture less-than-brilliant forgeries? I don’t get it.
For now, I press on. “Clearly things are going downhill. The signs of Livia’s acute physical stress, Angelique’s frantic overtures. Now . . . Livia’s murder. I think whatever purpose the girls had been serving . . . time’s up. And they both knew it. Know it.” My own voice ends shakily. Is Angelique even still alive? Or is it just a matter of time before we find her body? And if she is still breathing, dear God, what must she be going through? After everything she did to try to help her friend.
Where have these girls been hidden? What the hell has been happening to them for the past year?
And why the fuck couldn’t we have found Livia in time?
Lotham downs half a mug of rum-laced coffee, his grim expression a mirror for my own dark thoughts.
“Were you able to trace Angelique’s alias, Tamara Levesque?” I ask at last, trying to marshal some semblance of professionalism. “Did it lead to a bank account?”
“Yes, I was able to trace it. No, it didn’t lead to a bank account stuffed with ill-gotten gains. What I did discover: Tamara Levesque is a college student. Enrolled in Gleeson College, to be exact.”
“Seriously?”
“Do I look like a guy with a sense of humor?”
I’m this close to fetching more rum, this time for both of us. Instead, I rub my temples furiously. “So Tamara Levesque is Angelique’s alter ego. And Angelique used the fake identity to go to college? When will the case make any damn sense?” I mutter to no one in particular. “Is it a medical school?”
“Nope. Some small liberal arts college in Western Mass. It’ll take some digging to learn more. You know how many colleges exist in Mass?”
“A lot?”
“Hundreds.”
I nod, as if any of this makes sense. “I asked Stoney about fake IDs tonight. He assures me there’s a market. But he’s not convinced it’s on financial par with say, drug dealing.”
“He’s probably right about that.”
“And yet, we now have evidence of two girls who may have been involved in producing fakes, and at least one was murdered for it. What would make such forgeries worth killing over? Especially considering they weren’t even top-quality knock-offs.”
“I have no idea.”
“You know what would be priceless and worth killing over? Green cards. Or work visas. A guy at the end of the bar suggested it. You have thousands of immigrants whose temporary status is about to expire, all of them have local roots, and none of them want to go home. Making a forged visa worth a small fortune.”
Lotham, however, is already shaking his head. “Can’t be done. Certainly not by two teenagers. Hell, we might as well go back to counterfeiting currency. It’d be about as easy.”
“Is there something in between? More valuable than a fake license? Not as complicated as a visa?”
“Off the top of my head . . .” He pauses, closes his eyes in thought, exhaustion, something. Opens them again. “Fake credit cards, I suppose. But that’s getting into identity theft, which is a whole different ball of wax. And I don’t know why anyone would need to kidnap two girls for that. There are several Russian gangs in Boston who are known for it. They already have recruits roaming the streets, internet cafés with data miners to record financial data straight out of someone’s wallet. Later, the data is transferred to a cloned card. For those operations, kidnapping would cause more trouble than it’s worth.”
I get what he’s saying. Unfortunately, it only adds to our confusion. I take it from the top.
“Angelique and Livia were abducted for a reason. First Angelique, who was most likely held hostage to force their original target, Livia, to do whatever it was they wanted Livia to do. Most likely this something involves computer design, 3D printing, parts manufacturing, whatever. But eventually, Livia disappeared, too. For the sake of argument, let’s assume it was because operations reached a point where they needed her on site, or desired more control. So now both girls are under wraps, but alive, fed, clothed, housed. Angelique doesn’t dare make a break for it or contact her family over fears they’ll hurt Livia, and vice versa.
“And the girls are working. Doing something important because otherwise why be kept alive at all? Maybe it started with the forged licenses, which showed off Livia’s skills. But it must’ve migrated to something with higher revenue potential to justify holding two kidnapped girls for nearly a year. Not to mention they’d need a space to keep the girls, plus have at least a couple of guys serving as guards, while overseeing operations . . . They wouldn’t necessarily require an entire warehouse for computer-generated forgeries, but space is still space.”
Lotham nods.
“For eleven months, the girls have been working on this . . . something. It’s gotten so intense and stressful. Livia’s breaking down, while Angelique’s terrified enough to risk making contact and dropping breadcrumbs. Except it’s still not enough. Angelique’s worst fears come true. Livia is killed . . .”
My voice trails off. “Meaning, whatever the project is, it’s nearing completion. They don’t need Livia anymore. Or Angelique.”
Lotham doesn’t disagree. “Except these are still questions, not answers. Nearly a year later, we’re no closer to the who, what, or where. Best lead we got is some mythical older brother of Livia’s who inspires fear.”
“I saw him again tonight.”
“Who?”
“Our mystery man. He was standing across the street from my apartment. When I pulled back the curtain of my apartment, he stared
straight up at me.”
“Goddammit!” Lotham slams down his coffee mug. “You didn’t call me?”
I merely shrug. “And say what, he was just standing there. Except . . . If he was outside my apartment, then he couldn’t have been the one killing Livia. Could he?”
“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion. We don’t have time of death. Meaning he could’ve very well killed Livia, then come to monitor your actions. Dammit. Everything about this case. Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
“You need some sleep. We both need some sleep.”
“Because it’ll look better in the morning? It is fucking morning and a girl is dead!”
I don’t say anything, just take his hand. I feel his rage, his frustration. I’ve been there myself. Fourteen times. And it doesn’t get any easier to take.
“Angelique is still alive,” I tell him.
“Maybe.”
“She needs us. Whatever’s happening . . . it’s all going down fast. We have to figure this out. We will figure this out. But not like this. When’s the last time you even closed your eyes?”
He doesn’t answer. By my calculations, it’s probably been days. And exhaustion is clearly taking its toll.
“Come on. I’m taking you upstairs. Grab an hour or two of rest. Then we can review this again. When we’re both a little less insane.”
Lotham glowers, but doesn’t resist as I take his hand, lead him upstairs. My own thoughts are churning. A mix of crushing sorrow for a girl I never met and didn’t save. A deepening despair over too many questions and not enough answers. A growing dread that the clock is ticking, mercilessly now, and if we don’t figure this out . . .
Help us, Angelique had written.
Except we didn’t.
I make Lotham sit on the edge of the mattress. He removes his sidearm and gold shield, placing them neatly on the bedside table. He moves on autopilot, his eyelids already lowering, his body collapsing as I divest him of everything but his T-shirt and boxers. His chest is broad, and heavily muscled. I do not trace his collarbone with my fingertips. I do not trail my lips along the hollow of his throat.