“How long did you talk to them?”
“Five, eight minutes before lunch break was over.”
“And they told you about their friend’s sex life?”
“Think of it as girl talk. See, a civilian investigator isn’t so bad.”
Lotham takes a pointed slurp of his drink.
My turn: “I’m sure you have copies of Angelique’s text messages, but what about Snapchat? That’s what most teens use for communicating away from prying parental eyes. I imagine they think it’s covert, disappearing messages and all that. But is it? Can you recover a message that vanishes the moment it’s read?”
“The police can get Snapchat info.”
“How?”
“The messages pass through the closest server, the server captures the data.”
“But how do you know which servers to access when people use their phones walking all over the place?”
“It’s never a bad idea to start with the areas closest to home, school, and work. Won’t get everything, but will get enough.”
“What about messages sent in an app? You know, utilizing Instagram or some of the specialized messaging apps?”
“That’s what search warrants are for.”
I nod. Makes sense. For every new medium of communication comes a new way to capture that form of communication. “All right. Let’s say it’s been, I don’t know, eleven months since an investigation first started. By now you have your search warrant results, server data, cell phone dump.”
“Unless it involves something being unlocked by Apple. In which case we’re still in court.”
I smile. “Man, you’re a pain in the ass. Tell me, did all this new information scored by the search warrants and recovered from miscellaneous servers confirm your initial theory of the case, or alter it completely?” I look him in the eye. “Do you still think Angelique was changing clothes Friday night to meet a mystery lover?”
Lotham’s turn to smile. He sips his drink.
He’s not going to answer that question and we both know it. It’s okay. Whether he intended or not, he’s done me a favor, as just knowing what information is out there is half the battle. Some of the reports received by the police I can request copies of through the Freedom of Information Act, things like that. In this case, that probably won’t work. But I can also ask Angelique’s aunt Guerline if she’d be willing to ask for copies. Most families have no idea what the police have been doing behind the scenes and are frustrated about being left in the dark. Meaning my suggestion that they ask for a specific document almost always leads to instant results, and yet more cops who hate me.
“You’re thinking boyfriend,” I say now. “I can tell by the look on your face that what Kyra and Marjolie told me wasn’t news. You probably already read the messages, buzzed through the photos. Good lord, the hour after hour of teen drama you must’ve had to wade through. Kids keep everything on their phone.”
I pause for dramatic effect. “Except not Angelique. That phone in her bag wasn’t her real cell. She’s got a backup, probably a cheap burner. Where her real life happens, which is why she was comfortable leaving her parentally approved model behind.”
In front of me, Lotham thins his lips, flares his nostrils. I’ve been working on the thought all afternoon. Judging by Lotham’s expression, I’m right. But where does that leave us?
I have a second thought. Sadder, more sobering. Why Detective Lotham is really here. Because he gets it, too, that nearly a year later he’s no closer to the truth. And he’s troubled by that—both by what he’s seen and by what he can’t see. He doesn’t want me getting involved, no detective wants that. But at the same time . . . What if my blundering jars something loose?
Detective Lotham doesn’t approve of me. But he’s also desperate. And like any good detective, he knows he doesn’t have to like me to use me as a resource.
I push away from the bar again, nodding at the customer trying to get my attention. While I’m up and at it, I deliver Viv’s burgers to the flirty trio, noticing all three burgers are topped with her special sauce—family connections paying off. I wipe down two recently vacated tables. Scrubbing the surface with my fraying dishtowel gives me more time to think.
It’s after eleven now. Only half a dozen customers and forty-five minutes left till closing. I return to the bar and my position across from Lotham.
“Officer O’Shaughnessy was warning me about the gang activity in this area, dozens of them willing to kill over a single block of real estate. I did some reading of my own, you know, before I waded inexperienced and untrained into the lions’ den. There was a local case a few years back. A gang needed to lure out a rival in order to kill him. But their faces, their girlfriends, were too well known. So they recruited a new girl with no history of gang activity—had one of the females befriend her. Couple of months later, at her new friend’s request, that girl invites the rival to meet her at the park for a date. He shows up . . . Further statistics ensue.”
I tilt my head at Lotham. “Angelique would be a good target for that kind of scheme. Shy, quiet girl, also innocent and pretty. Maybe she was befriended, maybe threatened, but for whatever reason, she ended up in a situation beyond her control.”
“I remember that case.” Lotham nods. “There was a retaliatory shooting shortly thereafter. Killed three more.”
“But if that’s what it was,” I contemplate, once again leaning in close, “why didn’t she come home when it was over? Unless something worse happened? A shooting followed by a retaliatory shooting, like you mentioned? But in that case, you’d have a bunch of cops deployed to those scenes, and one of them should’ve seen or heard about Angelique.”
“True. Plus, there’s another problem with that scenario.”
“Do tell.”
“Gangbangers don’t fly.”
It takes me a second, then I get it. If Angelique were meeting up with new friends, and/or gangsters, there should still be some image caught on video. Maybe cameras missed the blip of a moment when Angelique appeared here, or crossed there. But for her to head deeper into the hood, traversing neighborhoods and parks, whether by foot, subway, or car . . . No way some camera somewhere didn’t capture her image. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Detective Lotham hadn’t personally viewed all possible video feeds dozens of times. I’ve done it myself, poring over maps again and again.
It’s how I found Lani Whitehorse, because in the end the lake was the only place she could’ve gone, regardless of the tribal police saying there were no tire marks in the mud, or flattened bushes along the shore to indicate an accident and justify the cost of a water search. I don’t know why that was, or how an ancient Chevy went from a hairpin turn to thirty yards out into a lake without leaving any trace behind. Maybe not all things are meant to be understood.