Before She Disappeared(95)

“As I believe you told me once, I can multitask.”

“Then what do you have to show for the morning, because I just gave you plenty.”

“I have bags of trace evidence and piles of security feeds to watch. I can tell you a plain white van pulled into Franklin Park shortly after midnight. I know the license plate was smeared with mud to obscure the numbers. I can tell you the driver’s face is hard to make out, but height and profile is about right to be a tall, skinny Black male. I can also tell you, there was a passenger in the van. She was wearing a ball cap.”

“Deke and Angelique,” I murmur. But then I catch myself. “Except it can’t be Deke, because he was standing outside my window last night.”

“According to the time stamp on the video . . . You’re probably right, it’s not Deke.”

Which leaves me as confused as Lotham feels. Clearly there were other players involved, who’d kidnapped Angelique and Livia, who most likely took turns watching over the girls. But again, who and why? What the hell had Angelique and Livia gotten themselves into that involved both of them missing for nearly a year, not to mention a college in Western Mass?

“I have to go,” I tell Lotham.

“I need to know you’re being careful, Frankie. No chasing down this Deke. Meeting with J.J. Samdi was risky enough.”

“I’m not looking for Deke,” I say, thinking, no need. J.J.’s got it covered.

“Will you please talk to me?”

“No. This is my life, my choices. Manage your own.”

I click off the phone. I honestly don’t want to hear it. I’m well aware of my strengths, and I’m well aware of my weaknesses. And I’ve designed a lifestyle that fits both accordingly.

Right now, that lifestyle involves locating Angelique Badeau.

I don’t have a time machine. There’s nothing I can do that will ever change what happened ten years ago. No amount of handwashing that erases the blood, no amount of repenting that eases the guilt. I screwed up. Paul died. It is both that simple and that haunting.

And now? Now my life is about helping others, serving victims.

I already failed Livia Samdi. Meaning now, more than ever, I need to get this right.

Angelique Badeau, here I come.



* * *



—

I take a taxi to Livia’s school. I don’t have the time or energy to figure out the maze of buses it takes to get from here to there. Class is in session when I talk my way through the front doors and head to Mr. Riddenscail’s room. I let myself in, standing in the back. He’s not lecturing, but drifting from workstation to workstation, checking each student’s designs, offering comments here and there. He spots me immediately, pausing as he inspects a male student’s drawing on the computer monitor. His guilty conscience? Does he already know why I’m here or at least suspect he couldn’t get away with it forever?

I’m not the police, but I don’t need to be. I want answers. After that, Lotham can have at him.

I wait. Riddenscail continues to focus on his class. Twelve computers, I note now. The same number as at the rec center. This is where it started, I think. Whatever it is that got Livia and Angelique in so much trouble. The idea to design their own fake IDs? If a jerk like DommyJ could do it, why not them? Livia would be the design team, Angelique marketing. Both had the brains to think bigger, better. Livia would knock off near-perfect fakes. Angelique would sell them. Given the number of underage college kids in Boston looking to join Marjolie’s club-hopping and pub-crawling ways . . . That would certainly explain the amount of cash in Angelique’s lamp, while Livia would’ve contributed the counterfeit hundreds from her own household.

Had they thought if they mixed the fake Franklins with real bills it would improve their chances of being able to spend the money?

Which is where I started to get lost again. Why the college pics? No way two teenagers ran off to attend a college under an alias. Let alone, why would Angelique have dressed up as Livia to do so, and why would Livia appear so terrified?

Then there was Livia’s meeting with her long-lost half brother. Not to mention Livia’s body, discovered just this morning, laid out in a tranquil park environment . . .

Running out of time. Livia dead, Angelique soon to follow. What happened, what happened, what happened?

I had so many questions for Mr. Riddenscail. And no more patience for lies.

A bell finally rings. The students rise, pack up their stuff. Several of them eye me curiously. Mr. Riddenscail and I are the only white people in the room. Maybe they think I’m his girlfriend or an acquaintance coming to meet him. No one asks. The kids simply shuffle out the door, some already deep in conversation as they head to the next classroom.

No kids file in to take their place. I must’ve caught Mr. Riddenscail on a break.

He’s already moved to the front of the room, where he’s pecking away at his keyboard. Lotham should get a warrant for that computer. He probably will. He’s thorough that way. Looking up Paul . . .

I order myself to focus.

“I assume you have more questions about Livia?” Riddenscail says at last. “Or would you like to learn more about 3D printers, the AutoCAD platform, design basics?”

“I’ve come from the rec center,” I say, watching him closely for his response.