Which leaves me with the direct approach. I hit 2B. After a moment, a male voice, younger, higher, answers. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Guerline Violette.”
“She know you?”
“I’m here regarding Angelique.”
Pause. Angelique has a younger brother, Emmanuel, also a teen. I would guess this is him, particularly as his tone is already defensive with an edge of sullen. He sounds like someone whose been subjected to too many experts and well-wishers and been disappointed by all of them.
“You a reporter?” he demands now.
“No.”
“Cop?”
“No.”
“My aunt’s busy.”
“I’m here to help.”
“We heard that before.” I can practically feel the eye roll across the intercom. Definitely a teen.
“My time is free and I’m experienced.”
“Whatdya mean?”
“If I can talk to Guerline, I’d be happy to explain in person.”
Another pause. Then a female voice takes over the intercom.
“Who are you and why are you bothering us?” Guerline’s voice ripples with hints of sea and sand. Her niece and nephew immigrated to Boston as young children a decade ago, along with tens of thousands of other Haitians after Port-au-Prince was nearly flattened by an earthquake. Emmanuel has grown up in Boston and sounds it. But his aunt has retained the music of her native island.
“My name is Frankie Elkin. I’m an expert in missing persons. I’ve been following your niece’s disappearance and I believe I can help.”
“You are a reporter, yes?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t work for any news agencies or reporting outlets. My only interest is finding Angelique and bringing her home.”
“Why?”
The question is not defensive, but quiet. It tears at me, the amount of weariness in that single word.
I wish I had an answer for her. Something simple like Because, or poignant, such as Every child deserves to be found, or defiant, like Why not? But the truth is, she’s probably heard it all by now. A whole torrent of words and reasons. Instead of being given the one thing she wants most: answers.
The silence grows. I should attempt some line of argument, but nothing persuasive comes to mind. Then, a noise from inside the building. Stairs creaking as a light weight rapidly descends. Another occupant or . . .
The click of the bolt lock snapping back. The front door cracks open and I find myself face to face with a Haitian teenager. Tall, gangly, close-cropped dark hair and deep brown eyes a perfect match with his sister’s. He takes a second to look me over through the slit of the open door, features as wary now as his voice had been earlier.
He turns, already dropping hold of the door. It’s up to me to grab the edge, push through, and follow him up ancient wooden stairs to the second floor.
* * *
—
Guerline Violette stands in the middle of a cramped living room, her arms crossed over her formidable figure. I peg her age somewhere between forty and fifty, but her smooth, dark skin and classic features make it hard to determine. She’s clad in purple scrubs seamed with orange trim and has bright green Crocs on her feet. She’s a daunting woman, especially with her hair pulled into a thick bun on top of her head, calling attention to her high cheekbones and handsome brow. But upon closer inspection I spy the purple smudges of long nights and fearful days that bruise her eyes. She watches my approach with a mix of suspicion and dread. I can’t say that I blame her.
Emmanuel closes the door behind me, then comes over to stand awkwardly by his aunt. At thirteen, he’s already my height, with the slender build of a kid who’s recently undergone a growth spurt. In contrast to his aunt’s colorful ensemble, Emmanuel is wearing the official uniform of teen males everywhere—sneaks, jeans, and a worn T-shirt. He looks young, clean-cut, and determined. The man in the family, even if it scares him. These are the kind of cases that break my heart.
Belatedly I stick out my hand. Guerline clasps it briefly, more out of politeness than welcome. The one-bedroom apartment houses three people and looks it. Guerline gestures to the cramped family room that clearly serves as a common room, bedroom, and dining room all rolled into one. What the room lacks in space it makes up for in color. Yellow walls, an overstuffed red velvet chair, a sofa piled with bright-patterned sleeping quilts, all bleeding into turquoise kitchen cabinets to the right.
I go with the red chair, positioned in front of the window. On the wall beside me is a high wooden shelf bearing photos of gold-framed saints, some religious icons, and a single dangling rosary. Below it, running along first the tall bureau, then the long cabinet holding the TV, is a riot of green houseplants, adding to the room’s ambience. Between a pocket of green leaves, I spy a discreet cluster of white candles, arranged in a semicircle with a bowl of water and fresh-cut flowers before them. Angelique’s framed photo, the same shyly smiling picture used in the missing persons flyers, is positioned next to candles.
Guerline catches me eyeing the makeshift altar, and I quickly look away. According to what I’ve read, many Haitians practice a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, but it’s not something I know much about.
I turn my attention to the other knickknacks littering the room. A clear baby food jar filled with sand—a touch of Guerline’s island home? Then I spot the requisite school photo of Emmanuel, his teeth a flash of white. Next to it a smaller picture of an adult female, the colors faded, the background hard to make out. The woman’s smile is familiar, however. If I had to guess—Emmanuel and Angelique’s mother, who still lives in Haiti. Finally, I spot a photo of a graying couple, framed by palm trees. Guerline and her sister’s parents, maybe taken outside their home before the earthquake destroyed it.
“You say you can help, yes?” Guerline states, moving to the sofa, her hand resting on the pile of quilts. Emmanuel follows closely behind. He is obviously protective of his aunt. I wonder if he was protective of his older sister, too, or if it was her disappearance that made him realize the need to guard his loved ones.
“My name is Frankie Elkin,” I repeat for both of them. “I travel all around the country, handling cases just like your niece’s.”
Guerline frowns, trying to absorb what I said.
“You are a private investigator?” she asks at last in her French-lilted English.
“I am not a licensed PI. I’m a volunteer.” I’m never sure how to explain this part. “There are actually quite a few people like me, laypersons who are dedicated to assisting in missing persons investigations. From search dog handlers to pilots to boots on the ground. There are organizations, missing persons boards where we follow cases like your niece’s.”