Before She Disappeared(25)

Back at the bar, I notice Lotham’s drink has been barely touched. Apparently, he’s planning on staying for a while. With the bar pared down to the night owls, there’s nothing that demands my immediate attention. I plop my elbows on the counter across from the Boston cop.

“So . . . of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world?”

He smiles briefly. “I had some time on my hands, wanted a drink.”

“Really? Because I think you’re still rankled that the new girl is sniffing around your turf.”

“You didn’t leave the school after our conversation.”

“Never said I was gonna.”

“You talked to students. Kyra and Marjolie.”

“I liked their yellow ribbons.”

Detective Lotham takes a sip of his RumChata. When he sets it down and exhales, his breath smells like cinnamon.

He has dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and battered features. His nose has definitely been broken, probably a couple of times, and he’s missing a piece of his ear, as if someone took a bite out of it. There’s a story there, no doubt. I like that about his face. That it’s a road map of been there, done that. It’s interesting.

In my drinking days, I devoted my share of nights to drunken hookups. Even back then, it wasn’t about the sex for me, which was generally a clumsy and forgettable affair. I liked the quiet right after. When neither of us were speaking. Just the sound of chests heaving, heartbeats slowing. That short, fleeting moment that occurs right before regret. When you can smell the sweat on your body, now mixing with someone else’s, and wonder again how you can remain so disconnected. Like it wasn’t your arms, wasn’t your legs, was never your body to begin with.

I wouldn’t invite a man like Detective Lotham up to my room for sex. But even now, I wouldn’t mind tracing the line of his chewed-up ear, his weathered jawline.

I stand, putting distance between us, then pour myself a glass of water and down it.

“I called the names you gave O’Shaughnessy,” Lotham offers up casually.

“And?”

“Wouldn’t say they sang your praises, but it does sound like you’re legit. I mean, as legit as an inexperienced, untrained civilian can be.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“No seeking of financial reward, or attention from the press.”

I shudder automatically. “I don’t care for the press.”

Lotham nods before he can stop himself, then scowls, as if I tricked him in to having something in common with me.

“Are you a good detective?” I ask Lotham.

He doesn’t take the bait.

“I think you are. You and the BPD have all the bells and whistles you could ask for. Not to mention access to way more information than I can get. For example, I had to interview Marjolie and Kyra to learn if Angelique had a boyfriend. While you probably know every detail from dumping Angelique’s phone, searching her laptop, surfing her social media. And yet you still stopped by tonight to learn what her two friends told me. Interesting.”

I push away. Drift down the bar to take a new drink order, settle a bill.

When I return, Detective Lotham has sipped infinitesimally more of his drink. This time, he doesn’t bother with pretenses.

“What did Marjolie and Kyra have to say?”

“I’ll show you mine, you show me yours?”

One arched bushy brow.

“Let’s both pretend that means yes.” I plant my elbows on the countertop. “Something changed in Angelique’s life the summer before she disappeared. She returned to school more . . . self-possessed, distant, distracted. Kyra thinks a boy, and serious enough to be sexual. Marjolie disagrees, but mostly because it hurts her feelings to think her bestie kept such a secret.”

“How long did you talk to them?”

“Five, eight minutes before lunch break was over.”

“And they told you about their friend’s sex life?”

“Think of it as girl talk. See, a civilian investigator isn’t so bad.”

Lotham takes a pointed slurp of his drink.

My turn: “I’m sure you have copies of Angelique’s text messages, but what about Snapchat? That’s what most teens use for communicating away from prying parental eyes. I imagine they think it’s covert, disappearing messages and all that. But is it? Can you recover a message that vanishes the moment it’s read?”

“The police can get Snapchat info.”

“How?”

“The messages pass through the closest server, the server captures the data.”

“But how do you know which servers to access when people use their phones walking all over the place?”

“It’s never a bad idea to start with the areas closest to home, school, and work. Won’t get everything, but will get enough.”

“What about messages sent in an app? You know, utilizing Instagram or some of the specialized messaging apps?”

“That’s what search warrants are for.”

I nod. Makes sense. For every new medium of communication comes a new way to capture that form of communication. “All right. Let’s say it’s been, I don’t know, eleven months since an investigation first started. By now you have your search warrant results, server data, cell phone dump.”