Page 29 of Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 8

Returning to Stoney’s dim interior feels like a balm after spending half the day out in the big city. I draw in a lungful of grease, salt, and hops, as I tie a white apron around my waist and prepare for battle. I know this bar’s fragrance as well as I know the feel of the beer taps and a sound of a bell: Order up! I like Stoney’s. Not just because it’s a no-frills joint where you get what you get but because it’s the local watering hole.

I’ve worked in dozens of bars across dozens of cities. I could make much more in some upmarket, aspirational place. But I remain partial to the kind of pub that feels like home.

When I check in, I find Stoney tucked inside a tiny office next to the kitchen. He looks me up and down, maybe checking for Piper damage. “Got three menu items,” he says, ticking off on his fingers: “Cheeseburger and fries ten dollars, chicken wings and fries ten dollars. Only fries, five dollars.”

He turns back to his archaic desktop. At least that explains the lack of menu.

I linger for a second, in case he wants to walk me through setup, maybe review some custom drinks. Nope, nothing. Apparently three minutes of instruction is all it takes to run this joint. Fair enough.

I unstack the chairs from the tables. Wipe every available surface. Napkin holders, check. Salt and pepper shakers. Cheap promotional coasters.

Then it’s time to check keg lines and clear the soda gun. Followed by drying and stacking glasses, filling bowls of spicy peanuts, slicing up lemons and limes.

I like the work. Quick and mindless. It allows my attention to wander.

Emmanuel Badeau and his look of suspicion. Detective Lotham and his look of hostility. Angelique’s friend Marjolie and her look of fear.

I don’t know my own expression at this stage of my investigation. Confusion? Intrigue?

Most of my work has been in remote areas where there’s been a lack of resources or small-minded police departments stocked with good old boys who don’t want to waste their time. Or, say, tribal police who really believe outsiders need not apply. As a city, Boston is definitely not that, and yet some of the same defensiveness applies.

Did I once feel the sting of barbed comments? Or fear being shut out, told I was wrong or stupid? Did I feel guilty for ruffling so many feathers? If I did, it was a long time ago.

Before I was stopped on an open road in the middle of the desert, the blacktop wavy with heat, as a county sheriff and his three deputies climbed out of their cruisers, smacking their batons in cadence with their approach.

Before the crack of a rifle shattered the rear window of my rental car and I skidded sideways into a bank of heavy trees, more windows imploding, airbag deploying, my nose breaking.

Before a screaming uncle pulled me from his sister’s front porch, punching me and crying that it was all my fault, then falling to his knees and simply crying because his six-year-old niece was never coming home and maybe he shouldn’t have drunk himself into oblivion the night he was babysitting.

Memories sear. I have so many of them now. They’re not precious moments, but burning-hot coals I keep picking up and turning over in my mind. They hurt. I study them harder. They burn deeper. I come back for more.

Paul accused me of remaining an addict even after I stopped drinking. I don’t think he understood that’s exactly how it works. I am my demons, and my demons are me. Some days I do all the talking and some days my monster does all the drinking, but every day it’s all me.

Viv arrives with a hum and a wave, as the first few customers walk in. I receive wary glances from most of my customers. I am, for the moment at least, the only white person in the room. But I keep the alcohol coming and as hour speeds into busier hour, with me smoothly drawing down draft beers, pouring out shots, tossing in limes, everyone settles. I deliver food slips to Viv, pick up waiting plates for tables. Stoney and I fall into an easy shorthand of numbered fingers as he splits his time between back kitchen and front counter.

We pass quickly from an easy happy hour to a hopping dinner rush to the late-hour locals who have nowhere else to be at ten o’clock on a work night. I zip back a tray of dirty glasses, placing them in the bottom of the vast stainless-steel sink and topping them with steaming-hot water.

Then I’m back to the bar, looking for the next drink order.

Detective Lotham takes a seat in front of me. No gray suit, but jeans and a navy blue sweater that stretches across his broad chest. Off duty, then.

He regards me. Friend or foe? He’s still debating the matter. Which means time for more fun.

“What can I get ya? Wait, let me guess: bourbon, neat.”

His brow furrows. “Good God, no.”

“Corona?” Though he didn’t seem the type.

“RumChata.”

“Seriously?”

“Around here, real men drink rum.”

I shake my head, reach up for the simple white bottle. I’d never even heard of the liqueur till this evening. Now, I’d received multiple orders for it. It reminds me of a Caribbean version of Baileys except it’s lighter in color and smells like rice pudding topped with cinnamon. I’d asked Viv about it during one of my kitchen excursions. She’d muttered darkly about Crémas, Christmastime, and I’d better demand a raise by then.

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