Before She Disappeared(15)

I have a feeling I know why we’re meeting at this bakery.

“Frankie Elkin?” Officer O’Shaughnessy approaches, extends a hand. He nods at the two customers finishing up their orders, whether because he knows them or is being polite is harder to tell.

“It smells amazing in here,” I say, shaking his hand.

“You ever eaten Haitian meat patties?”

I shake my head.

“Then you’re in for a treat. Beef, chicken, or herring?”

“Um, chicken.”

O’Shaughnessy approaches the counter, works his magic on his female friend. They both chatter away in French or a dialect I don’t know, while she takes out a brown paper bag and starts doling out golden puff pastry squares from the warmer on the countertop.

The girl rings up the order. O’Shaughnessy takes the bag, which is already starting to darken with splotches of grease. A final dazzling grin for the pretty girl. Her blushing smile back. Then he returns to me, hefting up his bag of treasures. I don’t see any place to sit inside so I follow the officer outside, where he takes up position on the concrete steps. He holds out the bag, I tentatively reach in and draw out one of the pastry squares. It smells wonderful.

He eyes me wordlessly while I take a first bite, followed quickly by another.

“Best damn food in the city,” he informs me.

I nod enthusiastically. The pastry is light and flaky, the chicken filling both sweet and savory. I may have to eat several more just to place all the flavors. It’s not a hardship.

O’Shaughnessy settles in more comfortably. He’s purchased four of the meat patties. Now he dives in himself. “On the weekends, people drive in from all over to load up on Le Foyer’s patties. Buy ’em by the dozen. Me, I stop in three or four times a week. Don’t tell my mom, though. I’m required by filial law to swear hers are the best.”

I nod again, his secret safe with me, as we sit in silence, chewing happily.

Officer Ricardo O’Shaughnessy looks much as his name suggests: a bit of this, a bit of that. His skin is lighter than Guerline’s, his brown hair wavy, his features complicated. He’s definitely a good-looking kid. The girl inside the bakery must be thrilled.

“Ricardo O’Shaughnessy?” I ask finally.

“Haitian mom, Irish father. Welcome to Boston.”

“Father a cop?”

“Yep, and mother a nurse. Just to shake things up, though, I got one sister who’s joined the force, and one brother in nursing school.”

I nod in appreciation. “You’re the Haitian liaison?”

“Grew up in this neighborhood. Known it all my life. Lotta my mother’s family is still around, too. Point is, I have a relationship with this community. And plenty of the West Indies population in Mattapan, from the old-timers to the newbies, feel more comfortable reaching out to a familiar face.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Kreyòl. I can also do an impressive jig,” he deadpans. He finishes up his second treat, goes to work wiping the grease off his fingertips.

I judge him to be a solid enough cop but still young. More attitude than experience. I want to pat his hand, tell him that no matter what I discover next with the Angelique case, it’s not his fault.

“Photo ID?” he requests sharply, apparently ready to get down to business.

I dig out my driver’s license from my front pocket with my left hand and slide it over to him. He checks it out. “California? You’re a long way from home.”

I shrug, finish one of the best breakfasts of my life, and reach for a napkin.

He places my ID on the step between us, snaps a photo of it with his cell phone. His fingers fly at the base of the screen. I’m guessing he delivered the photo to a buddy for basic background. I would if I were him. He tucks his phone in his jacket pocket, hands me back my license.

“Why you here?” he asks.

“A job. Cheap rent. A, um, cat.” I sigh heavily. There’s no good way to have this conversation. I’m a civilian, he’s a cop. And most police will tell you no civilian has any business doing a cop’s job.

I give it my best shot: “Look, you’re going to get back a report on me telling you nothing of interest. I pay my taxes. I own only what fits into a travel bag. And I haven’t bothered with a house, car, or credit card in nearly a decade. I am who I am. I do what I do. For the next few months, that will involve bartending several nights a week, while living above Stoney’s and searching for Angelique Badeau.”

“You know her?”

“Never met her. Just as I never met Lani Whitehorse, a hardworking mom from the Navajo Nation, or Gwynne Margaret Andal, proud Filipina and oldest of three children, or Peggy Struzeski Griffith, a slightly crazy, book-loving blonde. But I found them, too. Run the names. You’ll see what I mean.”

Ricardo frowns at me. “I’ll run the names,” he warns.

I spread my hands to indicate I have nothing to hide. Then I lean back against the metal railing, so I can see his face better, and he can see mine. “You and your officers won’t like me,” I state. “I understand. But I have the right to ask questions, just like anyone else. What I do learn, of course I’ll share with the proper authorities. I don’t have any jurisdiction here. It’s not like I can search homes, or interrogate unwilling parties, or make an arrest. I simply want to learn the truth and gain closure for the family. I’ll cooperate with the police every step of the way.”