by Lisa Gardner
Only one way to find out.
* * *
—
I have to walk all the way around the rec center building again. It’s very quiet here, and with the outdoor fields and courts, it reminds me of the hushed beauty of Franklin Park. Is that significant? My mood has gone dark. Even with the sun on my face, I’m thinking of dead girls, and personal failures and memories that won’t help me now.
Focus. I round the giant metal structure, finding the back doors unlocked and stepping gratefully inside. Once more the space is hushed and quiet. Lights out in the long corridor with pools of deeper dark marking the abutting classrooms and gym area. Such a huge space. Filled with plenty of nooks and crannies for Marjolie to sneak off with her boyfriend DommyJ. Not to mention shadowy corners perfect for drug exchanges, fake ID sales, and . . . ?
I have that tremor again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Starting my day with a handsome man who asks too many personal questions? Visiting a crime scene? I’m a mess of nerves. I don’t like this building anymore. In its own way, it’s also a crime scene. Where Angelique stood up to a bully with the help of her new friend. Where Livia Samdi thought her life was finally looking up. Where some summer programming happened to be going on in the background, but that had nothing on the real drama taking place among the teen participants. If these walls could talk . . .
I find my way to Frédéric’s office on my first try. In my jumpy state, I’m walking softly, as if I don’t want the ghosts of teenagers past to find me. As a result, when I rap lightly on the partially opened door, Frédéric startles, knocks a pile of papers off his desk, and whacks his computer monitor.
“Sorry.” Not the most auspicious start to a conversation.
“How did you get in here?” he asks sharply.
“The back door was open.”
“Mmm.” He seems to collect himself. “I try to keep it locked when I’m alone in the building.”
So I’m not the only one spooked by all this empty, lurking space.
“I just had a few more questions,” I start.
Frédéric nods, bending down to collect his fallen papers. “You are looking for Angelique Badeau,” he says, in his beautiful French-laced English. “I remember. Any word from the girl?”
“No. But after my conversation with you, we were able to connect Angelique with Livia Samdi. They were friends.”
He nods, straightening his long, lean form, but the statement doesn’t seem to mean much to him.
“Livia Samdi also disappeared. Eight months ago. This morning, the police found her body in Franklin Park.”
Now Frédéric swallows hard. It’s difficult to read his face. Stoic, resigned. As a man who works with at-risk kids in an inner-city neighborhood, he’s probably had this conversation before. Does it make it easier to take?
“I am very sorry,” he says at last. Then, more tentatively . . . “Overdose?”
“She was murdered.” I deliver the words bluntly, and am rewarded by a ripple of emotion across his smooth dark features. Then he subsides once more to stoic acceptance.
“You believe Livia’s death and Angelique’s disappearance are related? That is why you have returned?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They met here. Became friends here. During the summer program.”
Frédéric offers a shrug. “Are you sure they met here? Many of our kids already know each other. This neighborhood isn’t that big.”
“They met here. What can you tell me about DommyJ?”
The abrupt change in topic catches him off guard the second time. His face goes flat. Instinctive defense mechanism. As in he knows plenty about DommyJ, and is already mentally sorting out what he should and should not reveal. Question is, because he needs to protect himself and the program, or because he’s afraid of DommyJ?
“What do you want to know?” he asks at last. Excellent strategy. When in doubt, answer a question with a question.
“I hear he deals in fake licenses.”
“The subject came to our attention,” Frédéric allows at last, steepling his fingers in front of him. “There was an incident, toward the end of the program. Angelique was involved. She was angry with DommyJ for selling an ID to her friend. But not that he shouldn’t have coerced her friend into doing something illegal. Rather, the quality of the forgery was so poor, he should be ashamed of himself. She claimed he owed her friend a refund. Naturally, Dommy disagreed. I walked out in time to break up the altercation and order the three teens to my office. Upon further questioning, however, all parties involved denied there was a problem. You know how it is. My staff and I kept an eye out, but we never saw any more signs of trouble. Then the program was over, and the kids moved on.”
“Do a lot of your charges buy fake IDs?”
“I have no idea.”
“Come on. You work with teenagers. Surely you must have some sense of the demand?”
“Not really. The amount of illegal goods and services these kids can already get on any street corner, from drugs to guns to phones . . . This whole area is a black-market economy. You don’t need valid ID for those kinds of transactions.”
He raises a good point. Marjolie had wanted her ID to keep up with her club-hopping boyfriend. So there were some things the local dealer couldn’t supply. But apparently, not much.
“What would’ve happened if you’d caught DommyJ selling fake IDs?”
“We would’ve kicked him out of the program. Zero-tolerance policy, remember?”
“Like you did with Livia Samdi’s older brother?”
“J.J. Samdi? Yes, there were issues. He was banned from the rec center after a volunteer caught him selling drugs. The police were informed, though I don’t know what became of the matter. We do not hold the sins of the brother against the sister, however. Livia Samdi remained welcome.”
“Very enlightened of you.”
Frédéric simply waits.
“Did you ever interact with J.J.?”
“Yes. As part of the after-school programming. We open up the courts for basketball, other sports, while offering mentoring opportunities, tutoring instructors, and special classes in art, video design, computer programming. Our mission is to keep these kids off the street. We must help them make good decisions, as they are growing up surrounded by bad ones.”
“I have a friend who says he helps out with the mentoring. Charlie.”
“Ah yes, Charlie. The kids, particularly the boys, like him very much. He is one of them. A survivor. When he talks, even our tougher teens will listen. And every now and then, it is enough to make a difference.”
“J.J. wasn’t the every now and then.”
“No. Sadly.”
“But Livia?”
“I didn’t know her well enough. She was a gifted artist, as I said. But very quiet. She did our after-school programming, too. She worked with one of our teachers in one of the trade school courses.”
Trade school catches my attention. “You have teachers come help out?”
“Of course.”
“What about computer design classes? Say, taught by a Mr. Riddenscail?”
“Absolutely. He is very good. One of our few white teachers. The kids don’t make it easy on him, but he is tougher than he looks. Has been working our after-school program for years.”
“Were he and Livia close?” I ask immediately.
“She took one of his classes.”
“And you have computers here?”
“A dozen. We got them through a special grant.”
“What about a 3D printer?”
“Yes.” He regards me curiously. “Through the same grant.”
“Did Mr. Riddenscail write that grant?”
Frédéric sits up straighter. “As a matter of fact . . . Wait, I don’t unders
tand.”
But I’m already moving. I need to reach Lotham. Demand that he get a warrant and return here immediately.
“I’ll be back,” I inform Frédéric.
“Wait,” he says again.
But I don’t. My sense of urgency has taken over. I must move, I must act. Livia is dead, Angelique may be next. The rec center, computers, 3D printers, forgeries. It all ties together. I feel like I’m on the edge of watching the pieces click into place. If I’m not already too late.
I nearly run down the long shadowy corridor. I bolt out the doors, back into the blinding sun, whipping out my cell phone to call Lotham.
And run smack into J.J. Samdi.
“Lady, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
CHAPTER 32
I don’t have my whistle in my pocket, or my tactical clips in my hair. I’d left my apartment in too much of a huff. I glance at my cell phone, move my thumb to hit emergency. But J.J. is one step ahead of me, knocking it out of my hand.
“Don’t move a muscle.” He pulls back the flap of his unbuttoned shirt enough for me to see the black butt of the pistol he has shoved into the waistband of his jeans. An intimidating sight, but a dumb move. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t blow off his own balls.
We are twenty feet outside the rec center doors but out of sight of the street and, given how deep in the building is Frederic’s office, light-years away from the closest known human. That leaves me and my charming personality versus a homicidal drug dealer.
I tell myself I’ve faced worse.
That might be a lie.
“Is the safety on or off?” I ask J.J.
The question catches him off guard. Score one for me.
“I would have the safety on. I mean, don’t you have valuable body parts currently in the line of fire? Knee. Thigh. Or if you fumble getting it out, penis.”
I like saying the word penis in front of boys. It never fails to fluster them.
“Stop talking!”
“I’m not saying it’s common to shoot off a penis,” I continue now. “But after seeing it once, it’s not the kind of thing you forget. So really, I’m thinking of your own well-being.” My voice drops. “Don’t you think your mother has lost enough for one day?”
My quiet words hit him harder than my smartass comments. He recoils and the look on his face . . .
He’s not just a homicidal brother. He’s a grieving one.
“Stay away from my family. My mother doesn’t need you or your fucking gorilla.”
I take it Charlie’s outreach didn’t go as planned. I don’t blame him. The situation had been dicey from the start, with Roseline Samdi in a very dark place, and that was before she’d learned her daughter was murdered.
“Did you shoot at me the other day, Johnson—”
“J.J.!”
“Are you the one who chased me out of your house?”
He regards me belligerently. His silence makes me believe he didn’t do it. But there’s a vein thrumming in his sweat-dotted brow and I swear the coils of ink snaking up his arms and around his throat are nearly vibrating with agitation. He’s on something. His dark eyes are too dilated, his fingers twitchy. He’s high, he’s angry, and he hurts. A very dangerous combination.
I know. I’ve been there myself.
“Who is your older brother?” I ask.
“I don’t have no older brother.”
“Livia did. At least she told people she did. An older tall, skinny guy partial to gold chains and tracksuits. Very early two thousands. I’ve seen him myself.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“So you know him?”
“He’s not our brother. I mean, he’s a half brother. From some asshole my mom was with years ago. Damn fool went to prison. For all I know, he died there.”
“You have a half brother who’s been in prison?”
“Deke got sent up for armed robbery. He’s ten years before my time. Fucking loser.”
J.J. spits the words, his rage now directed at this half brother and less at me. J.J.’s still twitching more than I’d like, though. And his fingers keep plucking at his open blue plaid shirt, as if feeling for the comforting weight of his piece. He’s geared himself up for battle. An armed druggie looking for a fight.
A half sibling who’s spent quality time in prison. That would explain the outdated fashion sense. “Why is Deke a fucking loser?”
“Broke my mom’s heart. She needed him to help out. Put food on the table, hold down the fort. I was just a kid at the time, but even I got that. Instead, he took off. Next thing we hear, he’s busted for holding up a gas station. Good riddance, I think. But my mama cried every night. She didn’t need that kind of shit.”
“Versus your kind of shit?” I can’t help but ask.
His response is immediate and defensive. “I do what I gotta do. It keeps a roof over our heads.”
“And Livia?”
“What ’bout Livia? She’s not into this shit. She’s going to school. She’s good, goddammit. She was good!”
J.J. whips out his gun. His cheeks are wet, his pain a feral beast I can practically watch claw at his throat. I once hurt that much, too. I know exactly how it feels. It allows me to take one step closer, then another, till we are nearly chest to chest.
He is so much bigger than me. All muscle and sinew, rage and grief. The gun is down at his side, but it would be very easy for him to raise it between us. Fire at me. Blow away himself. One last giant fuck you to a world that’s done him wrong.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I keep my gaze steady on his face, willing some of my calm into his trembling form.
“Angelique and your sister were friends. Close friends. Did you know that?”
He practically snarls at me. “No way!”
“Yes. They met here, during the summer program. Something happened. It scared your sister. And Angelique stepped up to help her. She disappeared that day, dressed in your sister’s clothes. Posing as Livia.”
J.J. shakes his head. His eyes are still wild. I can watch his erratic pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. “My sister didn’t have friends. She was quiet. Kept to herself.”
“Angelique was posing as her,” I repeat.
“Why would my sister keep something like that a secret?”
“I don’t know, J.J. Why would she?”
I can see the answer on his stricken face. Because it would’ve been one more thing for her to lose, in a house filled with a stoned brother and a drunk mother. In a house where she’d probably learned years ago to walk softly and never call undo attention to herself.
“Fuck!” J.J. explodes, waving his pistol, vibrating in place. He’s going to hurt himself. Or me. Or all of the above. Later, he might regret it, but now, caught in waves of unbearable rage and unending grief . . .
Instead of shrinking away, I get right up into his foam-flecked face.
“Your sister’s dead,” I yell at him. “And someone’s gotta pay, right? That’s how it works. She’s dead and some bastard did it and he needs to hurt! He needs to feel this pain. He needs to burn in agony, scream in terror, cower in fear. All of it. Over and over again. Till he feels exactly as terrible and awful as you do right now. I understand, J.J. I want that, too.”
I have his full attention. It wasn’t really that hard. I just had to tell him the words that ten years ago I most wanted to hear.
I grip his left shoulder. “Help me, help her. Can you do that, J.J.? Can you pull yourself together long enough to avenge your sister?”
“Is it Deke? He’s out? He did this?”
J.J. moves to step away. I fist his shirt in my hand and hold on tight. “Fake IDs. What does your sister know about fake IDs?”
“What the hell—”
“Focus, J.J. Focus. Look at me. Listen. There was this kid he
re two summers ago who was selling really shitty fake IDs. Piss-poor quality. And your sister and Angelique embarrassed him.”
“DommyJ.”
“There you go. Did you ever see him around your home? Your sister mention his name?”
“Nah. But some of the guys talked about it. They said she got him good. And yeah, shitty fakes. I don’t even see the purpose.”
“Your sister knew exactly what was wrong with them. In detail. Why did your sister know so much about fake licenses?”
“I dunno. She’s smart like that. She’s always copying things and doing stuff on the school computer. She’s gonna get out of this place, you know. First member of the family to make good.” He catches himself. The use of the present tense. The statement of a dream that is now past.
The trembling starts again. I smooth my hand on his shoulder, rubbing slightly to soothe.
“Could DommyJ have hurt your sister in retaliation for her shaming him?”
“DommyJ’s nothin’ but a wannabe. Why do you think his fakes were so bad? He doesn’t have the juice to be anything but a poser.”
“Okay. So DommyJ isn’t the badass he pretends to be. What about Deke? He was spotted hanging out around the rec center that summer, watching Livia. Maybe also talking to her?”
“She never said—”
“DommyJ appeared scared of him. So did Livia. Why would they be scared of him?”
J.J. looks down, issues a long, shaking sigh. Some of the tension is finally draining out of him. Less adrenaline, more rational thinking. “If Deke’s out . . . He’s got real connections. From his own days, plus serving time. Around here, you gotta respect that. If he showed up at my front door, I’d have to let him in. I wouldn’t want to, but I’d have to.”
“But he didn’t show up? Didn’t contact your mother? At least not that you’re aware of?”
“I don’t think she’d have anything to do with him. Especially not with Livia in the house. He’s a cold motherfucker. Everyone knows that.”
“Your mother said your house wasn’t safe for girls. Was it Deke she was talking about?”