Before She Disappeared(49)

“The police have it.”

“I don’t want to bother them. I’m trying to find new leads to move us forward, not make them go backward.”

He hesitates again, but my argument is a decent one. He prints me out a fresh list.

“One last thing. If you don’t mind. A simple memory exercise. You know Angelique’s face?”

He nods.

“Now picture her, here, the last time you saw her. Where is she?”

It takes him a moment, but he complies, even going so far as to close his eyes. “Angelique is sitting outside on a yellow bench. She has her sketch pad on her lap, her head bent over as she draws. As I walk by, making my rounds, she doesn’t look up but continues to sketch, very fast, very focused. I can hear the scratch of charcoal against the page. I remember thinking she looked like a true artist, with a vision in her head she must capture immediately, before it disappeared forever. I was impressed.”

“Could you see the drawing?”

“No, but she was wearing her hair down. She had thick ringlets that hung in front of her like a curtain.”

“Were there other kids around her?”

Silence as he digs deeper into his recollection. “I see three boys. They have a hacky sack and are kicking it around. Two more girls, sitting on another bench. One is giggling. There are other kids lounging in the grass. The weather is very beautiful.”

“Who is closest to Angelique? A boy? A girl?”

“I see only the three boys and they are busy with their game.”

“Anyone else? Someone near Angelique, or maybe—like you—noticing Angelique even if she doesn’t notice them?”

Slowly, he says: “There’s another girl. Seated on the ground further down, her back against the building. She is also drawing, but she is in the shade, not the sun. She is looking in Angelique’s direction. She is watching Angelique draw. When I walk by, however, the girl ducks her head quickly. Too quickly, I think. I’m about to stop, push a little, then I hear yelling in the soccer field. I turn and head there.”

“What does this other girl look like?”

“Another teen. I remember seeing her in the fashion camp as well.” Frédéric opens his eyes, shakes his head. “But I don’t remember her face. I’m not even sure I ever saw it fully. I could always find her in a crowd, however, by looking for her hat. Every day, regardless of weather or conditions, she wore the same red ball cap. And yes, now that you mention it, she was often staring at Angelique.”





CHAPTER 16




I’ve barely left the rec center property, heading back down the main boulevard with a vague notion of finding my bus stop, when a white car goes roaring past me in the opposite lane. It slams on its brakes, performs a hard U-turn, and zips up beside me.

“Get in,” Detective Lotham orders.

I stare at him for a moment, not trying to be belligerent, but definitely disoriented.

“I know you like to walk,” he growls.

“Actually, I was headed for the bus.”

“Stop being so damn contrarian and get the hell in.”

The moment he calls me contrarian I naturally want to protest. But the urgency in his voice, underlaid with anger, and maybe even a hint of fear, catches my attention. I get in. I’ve no sooner shut the door than he floors the gas. The sudden acceleration slams me back against my seat and I scramble for a seat belt.

“What do you know about counterfeiting?” he asks me, both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. He’s leaning forward, as if throwing his whole body into his aggressive driving.

“As in money?”

“U.S. currency to be exact.”

“I thought that was very hard to do.”

“Exactly. Meaning it’s not a small-time DIY enterprise. The good fakes generally come from overseas. Europe, Russia. You need the right equipment and a master tradesperson to pull it off. Computers have simplified the process some—the good forgers scan hundreds of images of, say, a Ben Franklin, then create a 3D master plate based off the composite image. Provides the bills with the same printing imperfections the U.S. Treasury installed on purpose. Still, there are watermarks and special paper and reflective dyes. Not something for the average criminal to execute.”

I nod, then start to connect the dots, why Detective Lotham is suddenly an expert on forgery. “The bills from Angelique’s lamp,” I murmur out loud. Of all the findings from the hidden cash, this is not one I’d expected.

“A tenth of them are counterfeit. Almost exactly. Which, according to the Secret Service agent who showed up in my office this morning, is how it’s usually done.”

“They mix in fake money with real money so it’s less noticeable?”

We’ve come to a red light. Lotham hits a switch on his dash, issuing a shrill whoop, whoop, and we scream on through. I grab hold of the oh-shit handle, still not knowing where we are going with such urgency.

“Angelique’s stash isn’t as large as it appears. We’re talking rolls of twenties, wrapped in hundreds.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a popular trick among the streetwise to appear richer than they are.”

“Give me a total.”

“Stashed in that lamp was about twelve thousand dollars.”