Page 84 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 22

Lotham is the dedicated, workaholic detective I suspected him to be. He doesn’t take me to some evidence lab or special countersurveillance expert. He drives us to the BPD field office in Mattapan. District B-3, the blue sign reads, perched outside a fairly new-looking brick structure. It has a towering front façade that reminds me of Angelique’s high school. Apparently New England architecture is all about first appearances.

Inside the station, things are a bit more “TV cop show.” The drop ceiling, cheap flooring, security desk. Lotham waves at the front desk sergeant, having me sign in, while not offering an explanation. The female officer—older, with a hawkish face—looks bored. But I’m wide-eyed. My last few investigative gigs have involved places where the local police outpost was barely more than a double-wide. In comparison, this is swanky. Boston fucking PD for sure.

Lotham weaves his way down the hall, up the stairs. Once more, my job is to scamper behind him. I catch a glimpse of walls covered with Most Wanted photos juxtaposed with tributes to officers fallen in the line of duty. I don’t get to study any of it, as I quicken my pace to keep up with a boxer on a mission.

When we finally arrive at Lotham’s workspace, it turns out to be a desk in an open bullpen. The low walls of the cubicle bear everything from a few tucked-away photos of beaming schoolkids—his nieces and nephews, I would guess—to various police agency patches to several framed Muhammad Ali quotes. Angelique’s missing poster is pinned up in one corner, right where he’d see it every time he sat down in front of his computer. He doesn’t comment, and neither do I.

But I have a curious flushed sensation. I was right. He is who I thought he would be. Which is much more than I can say for most people.

Lotham fires his desktop to life. He disappears briefly, returns with two plastic cups of water. Then he snags a desk chair from the unoccupied cubicle behind him and drags it over. He doesn’t speak, just gestures. I take a seat. Pick up my water. Watch his fingertips fly across his keyboard.

I have only limited technical skills. But befitting a big-city detective, Lotham appears just as at home in front of a computer as he does out on the streets.

Next thing I know, he’s shoving back his chair, while gesturing me closer. “First—and best—camera angle,” he states. “Taken from the corner grocer across the street. You’ll see all the kids exit at end of day, Friday, November 5. Day of Angelique’s disappearance.”

I nod and focus on the screen as he hits play. I don’t get to hear the school bell, as the video offers images only. But I can pretty much fill in the audio, as on the screen bodies start pouring out the doors and down the steps.

It’s a fluid mass of teenage humanity. Almost all of it African American and clad in the same uniform of jeans, hoodies, flannel shirts. In the end, it’s not Angelique I spy first, but her curvy friend, Marjolie. Which leads to Kyra, and then, following shortly behind her, Angelique. The girl is wearing denim leggings with an oversized sweater in deep red. She has a bright-colored knit scarf wrapped tight around her neck, thin black gloves on her hands, and untied duck boots on her feet. Her navy blue backpack is slung over one shoulder. The weather is sunny but clearly cold.

Lotham taps the screen, in case I missed our target. I nod to let him know I see her. As we watch, she and her besties grow slightly larger, walking across the street toward the corner grocer. Then they disappear from view.

“After-school snack,” I mutter. Or drink, as it might have been in my case.

Lotham hits arrows. The video fast-forwards. Now we see all three girls reappear. There appears to be laughing, hugging. One dark head peels away. Taller, so I’m guessing Kyra. That leaves Marjolie and Angelique. Marjolie must return inside the store, as she simply disappears from the frame. But Angelique appears more fully, crossing the street toward her school. She doesn’t head for the front steps, however, but disappears, backpack slung over her shoulder as she strides down the long right side of the brick building, toward the infamous bolt-hole and side door, where she vanishes completely.

It’s a disconcerting feeling. A girl. There—with her friends and favorite scarf and school bag—then gone. Until she reappears at a cybercafé eleven months later.

I want to reach out and touch her image on the screen. I wonder if her family still does the same. Strokes the framed photo of her smiling cheek before heading to bed each night. Places two fingers against her matte lips upon waking again each morning. How can a person go from being so present, so alive, to vanished without a trace?

I focus my attention back on the screen. I try to think past the image, to the Angelique I now know. A smart, serious student. A caretaker for her brother, her aunt, and her mom back home. In her brother’s words, not a dreamer but a planner.

What I notice now is how she walks. Straight, direct, not a trace of uncertainty. Angelique didn’t wander down the side of the building to whatever would happen next. She strode purposefully forward. A girl on a mission.

“What the hell are you doing, Angelique?” I mutter.

Lotham nods slightly. He’s asked the same question a million times.

He hits stop. “I can already tell you how this video ends: without any more sign of Angelique. Which brings us to half a dozen more cameras, including traffic cams at each major intersection, none of which show her either.”

“From what I can tell, neither of Angelique’s friends reentered the school after her. It appears that Kyra heads off to the left, while Marjolie spends more time in the little grocer.”

“Actually, in a matter of minutes, Marjolie heads down the block in the opposite direction of the school, to the bus stop Angelique normally uses. I traced her route back home utilizing various video feeds. Kyra, as well. Both go from here to various buses to their individual residences.”

I nod, impressed. That must’ve taken no shortage of time to sort out, given all the cameras involved. But it’s also good info to have. Whatever happened next didn’t involve Angelique’s best friends.

Which leaves us with? “All right. So we know where Angelique goes—down the side of the school. We know where Kyra and Marjolie head—home. Which brings us to new friend... associate... something, Livia Samdi. What about her?”

Lotham obediently rewinds the deli-mart footage. Once again students pour down the front steps into the broad city street. This time, I keep my eyes out for a red hat. I don’t know Livia’s features much more than that.

Lotham rewinds six more times. We devise a system. I stare at the upper left quadrant while he does lower right. We work our way toward each other. The end result: No red baseball cap. No Livia Samdi.

I sip more water, rub my eyes. Lotham closes out that video, loads up the next.

“This is from the traffic cam on the intersection to the west of the school.”

I nod, grateful I don’t have work tonight, as apparently, there’s enough footage here to last at least a week.

---