Before She Disappeared(14)

“You mean Officer O’Shaughnessy?”

“Ricardo O’Shaughnessy?” Now I’m confused.

The phone attendant chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “Haitian liaison officer? We have a number of designated community contacts. Puerto Rican, LGBTQ, El Salvadoran?”

For a moment, I’m genuinely flummoxed. Most of the backwoods towns I’ve visited have been doing good to employ one or two officers to handle everything, let alone specialists for each community group. It’s a whole new world out here, I guess.

I confirm Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy, then provide my name and number. As for my message, I hesitate, then state: “I’m calling with the permission of Guerline Violette to follow up on Angelique’s disappearance.”

I say it just like that. As if I know exactly what I’m talking about, maybe I’m even an old friend of the family.

The operator doesn’t comment, just jots it all down. I leave my phone sitting out on the sticky tabletop while I nurse my large coffee and jot a list of initial questions I want answered. I’ve just underlined cell phone three times—I noticed two cellular provider stores last night, and what kind of teenager abandons her old phone without at least attempting to pick up another?—when my Tracfone rings.

I answer it quickly, discovering Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy on the other end, not sounding happy.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Frankie Elkin—”

“What’s your angle? You looking for money? Cuz you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“If we could meet in person—”

“This is horseshit. The family has been through enough.”

“I’m here to help.”

Snort. “Listen—”

“Meet me.” My turn to interject. “Just five minutes. Jot down my driver’s license number, general description, anything you need to check me out. But I’m sure when Guerline called you this morning, she said I had her permission to talk to you. For her sake, grant me at least a quick introduction. Then allow me one question. That’s all. One question, then I’ll leave you alone.”

Another dubious snort, followed by silence. If Officer O’Shaughnessy truly cares about the family or the investigation, he’ll feel compelled to interrogate me. His suspicion, my entry point.

Another moment, then a heavy sigh. “You know Le Foyer?”

“Sure.” I have no idea.

“Meet me there in an hour.”

“Absolutely.”

He hangs up, which gives me a moment to chug my coffee, grab my notes, then approach the six employees clustered behind the serving counter, eyeing the white chick with open curiosity.

“Le Foyer?” I ask hopefully.

Four out of the six raise their hands. I offer up my map. The manager, an imposing-looking woman whose name tag identifies her as Charadee, takes my map, jots down some notes, then hands it over. And just like that, I’m off and running again.



* * *



—

I’m learning quickly that Boston isn’t a town of neat and orderly streets. Instead, the lines on my map have me taking a diagonal here to a diagonal there. I stop and consult my directions often.

Walking down the sidewalks during daylight is a very different experience from last night. For one thing, I hardly see any other souls. For another, several of the winding streets offer rows of well-maintained freestanding homes, most looking straight out of the ’50s and many with cars that I only wish I could afford parked on the driveway. I pass a blue-painted house whose white trim is decorated with cutout hearts, then a front porch with intricate red-and-gold woodwork carved into the shape of flowers. There is also more green space than I expected, from tended yards to community gardens to grassy parks.

I don’t feel nervous at all walking down these streets. In fact, I’m beginning to think this quaint neighborhood might be one of the best-kept secrets in Boston. Maybe there’s a whole other reason the locals want to scare outsiders away. This kind of charming, affordable housing I’d certainly want to keep to myself.

I’m just coming to the major intersection with Blue Hill Avenue when I pass a tall chain-link fence to my left. I’m thinking automotive repair shop, when I catch the first whiff. My feet stop on their own. I inhale a second time. Pastry dough, sugar, spice. My stomach is already grumbling as I realize the setback brick building is my target. Le Foyer Bakery. If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’m in.

I don’t know what Officer O’Shaughnessy looks like. I’m guessing I’ll recognize him by his uniform. As for me, I’m the only white person I’ve seen this morning, so I’m guessing I’m easy to spot as well.

I head into the bakery, where the intoxicating smell is even stronger. I note several display cases crammed full of huge, crackerlike rectangles that seem to be dusted in sugar. Then there are trays heavy with homemade peanut brittle, as well as cashew brittle. I don’t see any labels, prices, or menus. Apparently, I’m supposed to know what I’m looking at and what I want.

The two people ahead of me are placing brisk orders in what I’m guessing is French or Haitian Kreyòl. A third is talking on his phone, also in Kreyòl.

The door opens behind me. A uniformed officer appears, midthirties, solidly built. Officer O’Shaughnessy, I would presume. He nods at me once, then breaks into a broad smile I realize belatedly is for the pretty young thing standing at the counter behind me. She grins back happily.