Before She Disappeared(24)

Then it’s time to check keg lines and clear the soda gun. Followed by drying and stacking glasses, filling bowls of spicy peanuts, slicing up lemons and limes.

I like the work. Quick and mindless. It allows my attention to wander.

Emmanuel Badeau and his look of suspicion. Detective Lotham and his look of hostility. Angelique’s friend Marjolie and her look of fear.

I don’t know my own expression at this stage of my investigation. Confusion? Intrigue?

Most of my work has been in remote areas where there’s been a lack of resources or small-minded police departments stocked with good old boys who don’t want to waste their time. Or, say, tribal police who really believe outsiders need not apply. As a city, Boston is definitely not that, and yet some of the same defensiveness applies.

Did I once feel the sting of barbed comments? Or fear being shut out, told I was wrong or stupid? Did I feel guilty for ruffling so many feathers? If I did, it was a long time ago.

Before I was stopped on an open road in the middle of the desert, the blacktop wavy with heat, as a county sheriff and his three deputies climbed out of their cruisers, smacking their batons in cadence with their approach.

Before the crack of a rifle shattered the rear window of my rental car and I skidded sideways into a bank of heavy trees, more windows imploding, airbag deploying, my nose breaking.

Before a screaming uncle pulled me from his sister’s front porch, punching me and crying that it was all my fault, then falling to his knees and simply crying because his six-year-old niece was never coming home and maybe he shouldn’t have drunk himself into oblivion the night he was babysitting.

Memories sear. I have so many of them now. They’re not precious moments, but burning-hot coals I keep picking up and turning over in my mind. They hurt. I study them harder. They burn deeper. I come back for more.

Paul accused me of remaining an addict even after I stopped drinking. I don’t think he understood that’s exactly how it works. I am my demons, and my demons are me. Some days I do all the talking and some days my monster does all the drinking, but every day it’s all me.

Viv arrives with a hum and a wave, as the first few customers walk in. I receive wary glances from most of my customers. I am, for the moment at least, the only white person in the room. But I keep the alcohol coming and as hour speeds into busier hour, with me smoothly drawing down draft beers, pouring out shots, tossing in limes, everyone settles. I deliver food slips to Viv, pick up waiting plates for tables. Stoney and I fall into an easy shorthand of numbered fingers as he splits his time between back kitchen and front counter.

We pass quickly from an easy happy hour to a hopping dinner rush to the late-hour locals who have nowhere else to be at ten o’clock on a work night. I zip back a tray of dirty glasses, placing them in the bottom of the vast stainless-steel sink and topping them with steaming-hot water.

Then I’m back to the bar, looking for the next drink order.

Detective Lotham takes a seat in front of me. No gray suit, but jeans and a navy blue sweater that stretches across his broad chest. Off duty, then.

He regards me. Friend or foe? He’s still debating the matter. Which means time for more fun.

“What can I get ya? Wait, let me guess: bourbon, neat.”

His brow furrows. “Good God, no.”

“Corona?” Though he didn’t seem the type.

“RumChata.”

“Seriously?”

“Around here, real men drink rum.”

I shake my head, reach up for the simple white bottle. I’d never even heard of the liqueur till this evening. Now, I’d received multiple orders for it. It reminds me of a Caribbean version of Baileys except it’s lighter in color and smells like rice pudding topped with cinnamon. I’d asked Viv about it during one of my kitchen excursions. She’d muttered darkly about Crémas, Christmastime, and I’d better demand a raise by then.

Now I get out a half glass, scoop in ice, douse it in white boozy sweetness, then push it toward the detective.

“One girly drink for the big guy. I’ll be back.” I head to the other end of the bar, topping off water for one customer, pouring fresh beers for three more. I keep my movements easy, my face bright, and pretend I don’t feel Detective Lotham’s stare burning a hole in my back.

A wave from the corner booth. I walk around to take an order for three burgers from a trio of elderly gentlemen who seem to be having a very good time. The one closest to me gestures me closer. “You the new girl Viv was talking about?” He has gray whiskers, sparkling brown eyes, and a mischievous smile. I’m willing to bet he was hell on wheels back in the day. And that day might’ve been yesterday.

“I’m the new girl,” I confirm.

“Mmm-hmm. I tell you what, girlie. That Viv give you any trouble, you come find me. I’ll set her straight.”

“Viv? You’re offering to protect me from Viv?”

“That’s right. She can be uppity. Bossy, too. And I should know; I’m her big brother.”

“That so?”

“Albert.”

“Nice to meet ya, Albert. But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to be blunt: We both know that you’re no match for Viv. Thanks for the offer, though.”

The man’s friends chortle across the table. My customer’s grin broadens. Whatever the test, apparently I passed it. A parting wink, then I deliver the order slip to Viv, informing her that she has a table of admirers, including older brother Al. She merely rolls her eyes and drops down another bucket of fries. I escape before the greasy steam coats my skin.