They’d test each bill for chemical residue. Traces of drugs. Maybe some cool random mold that could only be found in one basement in all of Boston. Or not.
I’d read about a case where the serial numbers on the bills were traced to a particular ATM, which allowed the police to pull video and identify the person who withdrew the funds. That would be great. Given how tightly bound the money was, however, I don’t have an impression of crispness, consecutive serial numbers, or, really, any useful information.
It looked like rolls of hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars per bundle. Making the total stash worth tens of thousands. What in the world could a teenage girl be doing to earn that kind of money?
Prostitution is the first thought that comes to mind. And would fit with an overall story line of human trafficking. But I certainly hadn’t seen any sign of sexy clothes or paraphernalia. Let alone, when? Angelique shared her sleeping quarters with her brother. If she was sneaking out, surely he’d be sharing those details by now. Not to mention tens of thousands is a lot of money for that scenario. No pimp wants the hired help to achieve financial independence.
“Umm, lady, you gonna keep pouring that beer?”
A voice jolts me from my reverie. Sure enough, I’ve topped off the glass and am now gushing foam down the sides. I flush, knock off the tap, deliver the beverage.
When I return, Stoney looks like he’s wondering if no help might be better than mine. Fair enough.
“Illegal income,” I tell him. “What are the local options?”
He appears to take my inquiry seriously as he stacks dirty glasses on a tray for delivery to the kitchen. “Drugs.”
“No sign of product, plus narc dogs would’ve sniffed out the cash if it had been in contact with meth, dope, whatever.” I line up four half glasses, toss in ice, start doling out rum.
Stoney doesn’t question this statement. “Sex.”
“Possible but not probable.”
“Stolen goods.”
Hadn’t thought of that. I top the rum with Coke, then swing back around the bar to deliver the drinks to the waiting table. When I return, Stoney has finished with the dirty glasses and is now ringing up an order for a waiting patron.
“What kind of stolen goods?” I ask him.
“Electronics. Cell phones. Guns.”
“Not sure our girl has that skill set or resources. She’s the studious type. Wants to be a doctor when she grows up.” Viv appears from the kitchen, one of her rare appearances, and hands me three plates. I shoot them to the end of the bar, picking up an order for a pitcher of beer on my way back.
“Sell off a kidney?” Stoney asks next.
“Think the family would’ve noticed.” I go to work filling the pitcher. I could ask about any recent surgeries. Maybe Angelique had suffered appendicitis that wasn’t really appendicitis? Or had tonsils that weren’t really her tonsils removed? Seems far-fetched, however, that she could pull off such a ruse in such tight quarters.
“Credit card fraud,” Stoney supplies next. “Or identity theft.”
Worthy of consideration. We know Angelique had a fake ID, why not a credit card in someone else’s name? She could charge items online, have them delivered to her home, then return them to local stores for cash or credit. Seems like the kind of activity, however, that would’ve drawn attention and been shared with the cops by now. Unless she used someone else’s house for delivery? A co-conspirator? The other half of us? Interesting.
Of all the options, white-collar crime sounds like the best fit with the picture of the Angelique I’m building in my mind. Then again, my image is based on information from her family and friends. And clearly, they don’t know everything about her.
Angelique went to high school by day, and took online courses by night. A lot of school, actual and virtual, for a teenager. Could that be a hint? Illegal activity disguised as schoolwork? Maybe she sold exam answers and/or term papers? But tens of thousands of dollars’ worth? Are there even enough kids in high school or at GEDNow.com to supply that kind of income?
I keep turning it over in my mind but still can’t come up with a venture, illegal or otherwise, that can account for Angelique’s level of cash.
What if she found the money? Or stole it? Maybe she wasn’t a dope dealer, but say she babysat for a drug kingpin, discovered a stash of cash, and thought she could get away with helping herself. Until the dealer found out and . . .
Now I have too many possibilities to consider, though most of them result in Angelique being shot as a message to others, versus being kidnapped for eleven months. Drug dealers are not the subtle sort.
I dole out shots, top off drinks. I operate on muscle memory, a woman who’s spent the majority of her adult life in bars, while my mind whirrs and chugs and ponders.
None of it brings me peace.
Help us, Angelique had encoded into her school essay. A girl clearly in trouble and desperate enough to take a shot at reaching out. I agreed with what Detective Lotham had said—just because someone hadn’t walked into the cybercafé with a gun pointed at Angelique’s head didn’t mean she wasn’t under duress.
Then another possibility came to me, scarier and sadder than all the others. She could’ve been kidnapped to serve as recruitment bait. A quiet, pretty immigrant teen. Held against her will, then sent out to bus stops and train stations to meet other unsuspecting teens and lure them over to meet her “friends”: sex traffickers, pimps, dope dealers. How much would that erode a natural caretaker such as Angelique, a girl who’d rescued her own mother and brother?
If the threat against her family either here or in Haiti was significant enough, she wouldn’t have a choice but to obey.
This scenario wouldn’t account for why Angelique had rolls of bills stashed in a lamp, but it would explain her disappearance, as well as her sudden reappearance seeking help.
As for how she might have gotten involved in sex trafficking, all I can think of is the rec center. According to her friends, she’d become distant after attending the summer program there. Because she’d met someone? Seen something? I have no idea, but it seems as good a starting place as any. First thing tomorrow, I’ll find my new friend Charlie and head on over. Like Angelique, I do best with a plan.
Which makes me wonder where Angelique is right now. Terrified or determined? Longing for her brother, or resigned to her fate?
And the mysterious us? Another girl? Several girls? Dozens of girls? All waiting for someone to rescue them from the dark?
The implications of that, the responsibility for all those lives, when I’ve never even rescued one living soul . . .
I can’t think about it.
Angelique. Others. Out there alone.