“Have either of you seen this fake ID?” Lotham asks Emmanuel and Guerline. His gaze lingers on Emmanuel. But both shake their heads.
I bring over four glasses of water to the booth, passing them out in a show of hospitality that also allows me a closer look at the black-and-white photocopy of the fake ID.
At a glance, I can tell this ID is an old-fashioned Massachusetts license, versus the newer Real IDs that are required for airport security. The photocopy is of the front of the ID only and not a good-quality reproduction. Clearly, the attendant at the cybercafé had been purely going through the motions.
“Ahem,” Lotham says. I glance up to find him staring at me, my water delivery not having fooled him for a second.
“Does that cybercafé still have the original ID?” I ask. As long as I’m busted, I might as well go all in.
“No.”
“What about the essay, login instructions, other notes she handed over?”
“Attendant threw them away. They were scanned and uploaded. No reason to hang on to the hard copies.”
“Why Roxbury? Has she used that internet café before?”
Lotham doesn’t object to this question. Instead, both he and O’Shaughnessy glance at the family. Once again, Emmanuel does the answering.
“She never mentioned it to me. It’s not close to our apartment, or on the way home from school. Or”—he is a thoughtful young man—“near her friends.”
“What about her new friend?” Again, as long as I’ve joined the party. “The one she met at the rec center that summer?”
“I do not know that friend,” Emmanuel says.
Guerline speaks up. “What new friend?”
That I stay out of. Though it’s difficult given the glare I receive from Lotham. The police like to withhold as much information as possible, even from the families. I understand; nine times out of ten, the family is part of the problem, not the solution. But I’ve also worked cases where such communication gaps led to stalls in the investigation. If someone had just mentioned discovery A to family member B, then investigator C would’ve learned immediately about the impossibility of that claim.
Being an untrained, inexperienced civilian, as Detective Lotham likes to put it, I’m not bound by department policy. Instead, I get to follow my gut. Given the genuine shock, grief, and fear I see on Guerline’s and Emmanuel’s faces, I think they have no idea what happened to Angelique. Whatever mess she’d made or stumbled into or gotten tangled up in, they would like to know as much as anyone.
I also like to think: They would love her anyway. But maybe that has more to do with my needs than theirs.
“Angelique’s friends claim she was different the fall she disappeared,” Lotham provides at last. “Distracted. Maybe by someone she’d met during the summer program at the rec center. Did you notice anything?”
Guerline doesn’t answer right away. On the table, O’Shaughnessy is still clasping her hand in his. Now, he gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“My Angel, she was . . . quieter,” Guerline concedes at last. “On her computer more. I assumed it was school. Her classes are very demanding, yes, and she insists on taking even more, over the internet. She wants to get ahead. This is a good thing. I did not worry. I did not think to worry.”
Emmanuel leans his head against her shoulder.
“Did Angelique have her own money?” I ask now.
Guerline glances at me. “She babysat, had small jobs. Not a lot of money. But for her own spending.”
“Did you find that money after she left? In a handbag, stashed in a lockbox?”
“Angelique carried a small zippered wallet. It went missing with her. But . . .” Guerline is frowning.
So is Detective Lotham. “When we searched the apartment,” he provides, “we didn’t find any cash. Nor was the wallet in her backpack. Most likely, she had it on her when she disappeared.”
“How much in savings, Guerline? Hundreds? Thousands? I mean, if Angelique had been babysitting for a bit, and wasn’t one to spend money on frivolous things . . .”
But Guerline shakes her head. “Angelique spent her money on her extra classes. I did not like that. I would have liked to pay for them, let her keep her money for fun. But . . .” Guerline shrugs. “It is only me to buy our food, pay our rent, plus send money back home.”
I nod. So does O’Shaughnessy.
“Would a couple hundred dollars be out of the question?” I push now.
Guerline still seems uncertain, but Emmanuel nods. I turn my attention to Lotham.
“That’s a lotta cash for a person to be carrying around these streets,” I murmur. “For her to have all of that in her wallet the day she went missing . . .”
Lotham clearly doesn’t like this thought any more than I do. A girl as smart as Angelique definitely wouldn’t be roaming around with hundreds of dollars in cash as a matter of habit. And yet, if all the money was gone . . . She must’ve taken it out of its hiding spot for that Friday and brought it with her to school. For the something special she was planning to do afterward.
“I don’t understand—” Emmanuel begins.
“Could I come over to your apartment?” I ask Guerline. “Not today, I know you’re exhausted. But maybe tomorrow? Just . . . to glance around. Get a feel for Angelique. A fresh pair of eyes never hurts.”
“Wait a sec.” Lotham, using his unhappy voice.
“You and my Emmanuel, you find this note?” Guerline speaks over the detective. “This message for help from our Angel?”
Emmanuel did the heavy lifting, but I don’t hesitate to share the credit.
“Then you should come. Today. Now, please. This message was sent weeks ago. That is too long. My Angelique needs to come home now.”
The starkness behind her words nearly breaks my heart. I don’t know how I can blow off my second day of work already, but I also can’t deny her. Even the cops, twin faces of disapproval, don’t say a word.
I hear a distant rattle from the back. A second later, Stoney walks in from the side entrance, both hands on his light jacket. He stops when he sees the strange little grouping sitting in his closed tavern. His gaze goes from the police to the family to me.
I open my mouth, searching desperately for some kind of explanation. No words come out.
He waits.
“Your cat killed two,” I state finally.
He nods, as if this makes perfect sense.
“Then Emmanuel Badeau—do you know Emmanuel? One of your neighbors? He made a discovery on the laptop he shares with his sister, Angelique, the missing girl? So he came over, and I called Detective Lotham and then his aunt came, and Officer O’Shaughnessy, and, and . . .” I run out of steam.