Before She Disappeared(88)

“I gotta go to work,” he says.

Makes sense. I move to the end of the mattress, where I manage to climb up with a lunging step designed to avoid raking claws. I cross my legs, eye my evening’s catch. I like the detective. I think he likes me. But I’m still not sure if I want to tell him about my plans regarding Roseline Samdi. In my experience, men tend to be overprotective, especially law enforcement types. Then I tend to get cranky, if not downright rebellious.

I should learn from my mistakes, but again, one of those things that’s easier said than done.

“Who’s Paul?” Lotham asks.

“Don’t you have a murder to investigate?”

“I can spare five minutes.”

“Too bad. The story takes at least thirty.”

“Former lover, boyfriend, husband?”

“I’ve never been married.”

He nods, that tells him enough. “How long were you together?”

“Nine months. Maybe a year. Depends how you want to count things.”

“The infamous ‘we can’t even agree on our first date’?”

“Something like that. We met twelve years ago. He helped me get sober the first time around. He believed in me, when I needed someone to have more faith and perseverance than I did.”

“And now?”

“Turned out ‘normal’ life wasn’t for me. Not to mention he didn’t approve of my new hobby. He thought I was being obsessive and self-destructive, substituting one addiction for another. It happens.”

“He’s an alcoholic.”

“No. Just a man with a savior complex.”

“So he helped you get sober—”

“I got myself sober, thank you very much.”

“Touché. But you meet. First him helping, then it becoming more, until you get too interested in playing detective—”

“Are you trying to die this morning?”

“I had a rough night.”

“Me, too, buddy. You want answers, ask some honest questions.”

Lotham is silent for a while. His breathing has accelerated. Mine, too.

“Where is Paul now?”

“We parted ways ten years ago.”

“Are you still in touch?”

“I dial his number on occasion.”

“And he takes your call?”

“No. His widow does.”

Lotham doesn’t speak anymore. Neither do I.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last.

“Nothing to do with you.”

“Still . . .”

“Like you said, you have a murder investigation. And I have work to do, as well.”

“Bartending tonight?”

“Shift starts at three.”

“Until then?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do my best not to get shot at or chased by anyone who looks like a mall-walking gangbanger.”

“A girl has been murdered. Things are getting serious.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re a civilian—”

“Get out of my bed, Detective. Shower is that way, if you’re interested. There’s food down the street. As for me, I don’t require a babysitter. I have my own life to tend to.”

“Is it because Paul died?” Lotham asks me, his voice softer, genuinely curious. “And now you can’t trust anyone?”

I lean forward slightly. “Or maybe, because I can’t trust anyone, Paul died.”

I climb off the bed, turning my back on the detective, and stripping off clothes. He wants to take in the show, that’s his problem. I have work to do.

I pull on jeans, find a fresh T-shirt. And maybe, because the universe has its own sense of humor, the one I grab happens to be a faded red shirt with the stick figure of a happy camper standing in front of an old VW bus and distant mountains. Life Is Good. Paul gave it to me to celebrate three months sober, when we officially inaugurated our burgeoning relationship by going camping. The cotton is worn with age, a soft caress against my skin.

I don’t look at Lotham. I grab my tennis shoes, head for the door. He doesn’t call me back. Which is good, as I rat-a-tat down the stairs and into bright daylight.

Sun is still shining. The world still spinning.

And Angelique Badeau is still missing.

I get to work.





CHAPTER 31




I head to Franklin Park; it would be faster to take a bus, but after the night’s adventures I could use the exercise to settle my churning mind. The park is on the map Charadee from Dunkin’ Donuts drew for me the other day—a massive green space just beyond the rec center. The rec center is my next stop, but I doubt Frédéric will be in till late morning. And maybe it’s my mood, or maybe it’s another sign of my obsession, but I want to see where Livia’s body was found.

I agreed with Lotham last night. How terrible to lose a child most of the world never knew was missing. Is that why I do what I do? Because I can’t stand the thought of a life not mattering? Of a child being forgotten? Or a person sinking without leaving behind a single ripple in the universe?

I don’t know. The vulnerability of Livia Samdi or Angelique Badeau speaks to me. After all, my own ties to this world are delicate at best. Should one of these cases take a wrong turn, that speeding bullet finally catch up with me . . . I don’t know that there would even be a funeral. Maybe I’ll just be gone. Which is both terrifying and comforting.