Detective Lotham shrugs his massive shoulders. “Sounds to me like you’re about five minutes from cracking this case and finding a teenage girl the rest of us have clearly been too stupid to locate. Please continue.”
I smile faintly. “Your original working theory was that Angelique had gone off on her own volition Friday night, to somewhere unknown by her aunt.” I pause. “And most likely her brother. Because while Emmanuel clearly knows something, he also loves his sister and would’ve told you by now if he knew where she’d gone on Friday.”
“And you got all this from meeting the family for what . . . five minutes?”
“More like twenty.”
Detective Lotham regards me for a moment, his flat expression unchanged. “Go home.”
“This is my home. I rented a room above Stoney’s.”
“It’s wrong to give the family false hope.”
“How do you know it’s false?”
“Because you’re out of your league. Because you only thought to check security feeds, when this area is surveilled by way more than cameras. This isn’t the-middle-of-nowhere USA. It’s fucking Boston, and we know what we’re doing.”
“So where’s Angelique?”
“Go home,” he repeats.
“Do you have LPR data?” A fresh thought occurs to me as I consider his surveillance comment. LPR is a license-plate reading system. Usually installed on police cruisers, parking enforcement vehicles, maybe even city buses. The technology continuously captures license plates as the vehicles drive around, creating snapshots of every single car parked at a given time in a given place. More surveillance data, as the detective said. I’ve heard of such things but never worked in an area sizable enough or sophisticated enough to have one.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation,” Detective Lotham informs me stiffly.
Meaning yes, Boston uses an LPR system. Which would’ve given investigators every car, van, truck, taxi, Uber driver, and city vehicle that had been in the area. Enabling detectives to identify the owners, run background, and tag criminal histories in the days and weeks following Angelique’s disappearance. So much data. Way more than the-middle-of-nowhere USA, as the detective put it. And yet, eleven months later, not enough to help. I rock back on my heels, contemplating.
“All the cameras, surveillance,” I consider out loud. “You should’ve been able to retrace Angelique’s exact steps by now. Even if she exited the school in this blind spot, the minute she walked right or left, she would’ve appeared on camera. Whether she was on foot, in the passenger side of a car, tucked in the back of an Uber—something.”
Detective Lotham says nothing.
“She could’ve caught a bus or walked to the T stop,” I continue musing out loud. “But you would’ve tracked that, too. Her path to the station, then standing around, backpack free, wearing her new clothes. Of course once she boarded and swiped her student pass, that would create yet another trail of breadcrumbs to follow.”
“Assuming she swiped her card.” Lotham appears bored with the conversation. “It’s possible she used cash for a single-use ticket. Then again, we got cameras on buses, subways, and trains as well. And a whole MBTA police force well versed in studying such visuals. Boston is clever that way.”
He’s being sarcastic, but I take the assessment seriously. “In other words, Angelique didn’t take mass transit because you would’ve spotted her. Likewise, she couldn’t have walked away and she couldn’t have driven away. Which leaves . . .”
I frown. Consider. Frown again.
“The sidewalk didn’t just swallow her up,” I say at last, frustrated.
“At this time, we’ve ruled out the sidewalk as a suspect,” Detective Lotham intones. Wise-ass.
“Then you missed something.” I announce firmly, never one to avoid a fight. “Technology is great, but it’s not foolproof. Maybe fucking Boston, the world’s cleverest city, has grown too dependent on its toys. I don’t know. But a fifteen-year-old girl didn’t just disappear off the face of the earth. There’s an answer to this puzzle. There always is.” I pause, then nod vigorously. “I’m glad I came. Whether you know it or not, you need me.”
“Excuse me—”
“According to you, you have plenty of resources and experience, not to mention a shitload of technology at your disposal.”
He glowers at me again.
“And eleven months later, how has that worked for you?”
“Listen—”
“I don’t understand half the crap you do as a big-city cop; I’ve only ever read about LPR, let alone the other bells and whistles the BPD brings to the party. But it doesn’t matter. Your best practices have failed you.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“An outsider. But that’s what it takes to find most of our missing children in the end.”
“Stay away from my investigation,” Detective Lotham warns.
“No.”
“Screw with the family, mess up our case—”
“What case?”
“Fuck you!” He closes the gap between us, his arms out, posture aggressive whether he means it or not. He’s bigger than me. Stronger, angrier. But it doesn’t scare me. As a matter of fact, I like that about him. He should be pissed off. He should be protective of the family. It proves he cares. Though it worries me, too. Because police incompetence would’ve been an easy answer to this puzzle. And so far, Detective Lotham doesn’t strike me as either burned out or lazy.
So what happened to a smart, shy teenager? She’d once stood right about where I am standing now. And then?
“I’ll be in touch,” I inform Detective Lotham.
His dark eyes nearly bulge out of his head with outrage. I smile. I’ll be the first to admit that these kind of high-conflict moments aren’t always fun for other people. And yet, they’ve always been fun for me.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” I say now, stepping back. “But you also can’t stop me. So the real question is, do you want me running around on my own, or do you want to assert some control by offering a level of cooperation? That choice is yours. Either way, I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do. And that’s find Angelique Badeau.”
“You’re nuts.”
“A little bit of crazy never hurt.”
“Asking the wrong questions can.”
He has a point there. Another bell, ringing from inside the technical institute. This one is followed by more noise. The stir of hundreds of kids, squeaking back chairs, popping open doors, stomping down halls. Lunch break. Which brings me back to my original task, and yet another reason to ditch official police presence.