I spread my hands to indicate I have nothing to hide. Then I lean back against the metal railing, so I can see his face better, and he can see mine. “You and your officers won’t like me,” I state. “I understand. But I have the right to ask questions, just like anyone else. What I do learn, of course I’ll share with the proper authorities. I don’t have any jurisdiction here. It’s not like I can search homes, or interrogate unwilling parties, or make an arrest. I simply want to learn the truth and gain closure for the family. I’ll cooperate with the police every step of the way.”
“You know how many murders we have around here?” Ricardo asks me.
“A lot. As well as a shocking number of nonfatal stabbings.”
“You know why?”
“This area is a hotbed of gang activity.”
He nods. “They’re organized block by block. D Block. H Block. This street, that street. We’re talking Black gangs, Haitian gangs, Puerto Rican—hell, we even have one corner held by the Chinese. You know what they all have in common?”
“They don’t like cops?” I guess.
“They don’t like outsiders.” He rakes me up and down. “You, Frankie Elkin, are an outsider.”
“My safety is my responsibility.”
“Till you get yourself in trouble and good officers have to wade into a dangerous situation to save your ass.”
“They took an oath. I don’t believe it was to serve and protect only people who make intelligent life choices.”
“Leave the family alone. They’ve been through enough.”
“Isn’t that for them to decide?”
“Drop the act. You’re here purely to help? For how long? Till you get wind of some lead or witness who will reveal Angel’s exact location, if only the family can raise the five hundred, one thousand, ten thousand dollars needed to seal the deal?”
“Run the background. I’m clean.” I notice he uses the nickname Angel. As in he knows the family that well. And cares that much.
“Just because you haven’t gotten caught, doesn’t mean you’re innocent.”
“And just because you’re suspicious, doesn’t mean I’m guilty.” I lean forward. “You think I’m here to make you look stupid, or even worse, exploit the family. There’s nothing I can say that’s going to change any community officers’ or lead detectives’ minds. So for now, let’s agree to disagree. You do your thing. I’ll do my mine. What I learn, I’ll share. And maybe, just for the sake of argument, an outsider like me can shake loose a piece of information that will move the case forward. Win-win for all, but especially the family.”
“Stay away from Guerline and Emmanuel,” Ricardo informs me. He stuffs our grease-stained napkins inside the sack, rising to stand.
“Wait. What about my turn? Our deal was, you got to lecture me in return for answering a single question.”
“The reward for any information leading to the discovery of Angelique Badeau?” he asks dryly.
I struggle not to lose patience, though given how many times I’ve had this same conversation in my life . . .
“Angelique went missing Friday afternoon after school,” I state now. “But the police investigation didn’t ramp up till Monday morning. Why that delay? What did you guys find, or not find, on Friday afternoon that kept you from immediately issuing an Amber Alert?”
Officer O’Shaughnessy regards me for a full minute. Then, “Dan Lotham.”
“Who is Dan Lotham?”
“The lead detective on the case. He’s who you need to ask.”
“Don’t suppose you feel like calling him on my behalf? Or I guess . . .” Meaningful pause. “I could always ask Guerline?”
The look Ricardo gives me would send a lesser person running. But I keep my face passive, my stare level. Nice doesn’t always get the job done. And if this convinces Officer O’Shaughnessy once and for all that I’m a manipulative bitch, well, he won’t be the first. Or the last.
Families always think they want the truth. But I’ve worked enough of these cases to know that sometimes cold hard facts slice deeper than expected. My contract is not with the cops. Not with the family. Not with the community.
My contract is with Angelique.
“Be careful what you wish for,” O’Shaughnessy mutters now, as if reading my mind. “I’ll give Detective Lotham your information. But between you and me, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
The story of my life, I think.
O’Shaughnessy descends the steps and heads for his patrol car. I watch him drive away.
CHAPTER 6
The Boston public school system is a mystery to me. I grew up in a small community. One elementary school, one middle school, one regional high school. You stood at a corner, the bus came and took you where you needed to go with the rest of the neighborhood kids. Boston, on the other hand . . .
Public schools, charter schools, international schools. Forget local geography, such as Mattapan. From what I read, a high schooler could attend any public school in the city of Boston, using some crazy application process that probably made engaged parents want to shoot themselves and disengaged parents . . . well, that much more disengaged.
Given such madness, high schoolers didn’t rely on the traditional yellow school bus. Instead, they had student passes for the city’s mass transit system—the T. Reading about it gave me a headache. That headache returns now as I contemplate the map of Boston’s MBTA system.
The articles on Angelique’s disappearance listed her high school as Boston Academy, a program that prided itself on helping minority students prepare for futures in healthcare, medicine, et cetera. If Angelique wanted to be a doctor, her school choice made perfect sense. From what I can tell, Boston Academy is a mere twenty minutes—and many confusing rail-bus-subway stops—away. Just to make it more interesting, I’ve managed to catch Boston in the middle of a massive update to the MBTA, guaranteed to cause delays, shutdowns, and random moments of sheer chaos.
I follow one of my printed-out maps to a local station, where I dutifully sit next to the tracks, watching garbage blow this way and that. I make out some graffiti farther down the way, not to mention random stickers adhered to benches and signs, now faded with age. A tattered poster is fastened near the T sign. MISSING, it reads in large print. Below, barely visible after eleven months of weather: Angelique’s official headshot. I feel a moment of fresh sadness. Not just because this girl is missing, but because from here on out, she will be defined by this one image. Was she happy the day this photo was snapped? Thinking about school, dreaming about boys, or plotting her next adventure with her friends?