Forgive Me (18 page)

Men don’t come and go from the front entrance all day long. They go to a basement entrance in the back and their arrivals are spaced out so there’s no lines or anything. The basement is where the work happens.

That’s what I call it . . . the work.

I found out that Natasha is eight years older than me but she looks a lot older than that. I hope she doesn’t ever read this because I feel bad writing it, but it’s the truth. Her skin is pasty and a bit loose. Her face looks hard like my mom’s and I know it’s from drinking and smoking. I know that I’m going to look that way too because I’m drinking and smoking as much as she does. I haven’t seen Ricardo in a few days. He’s busy. That’s all I’m told. I think he’s with another girl like Mandy . . . or maybe another me . . . another JBar in the making, and I bet he can’t get her photos right either.

The girls are my family now. Tasha, Katrina, Ashley, Nika, Daphne, Lulu, Daisy, Olyesa. Just some of the girls I know. There’s one American who is around my age. Her name is Erin and she’s a runaway like me. Oh wait, there’s also Jade. She’s older. MUCH older. Like thirties or something, but I swear she looks older than that. I think she’s pretty though. She doesn’t talk very much. She just gets high and keeps to herself. Maybe she knows something I don’t.

The other girls have accents and I think they’re from Eastern Europe somewhere. Russia, I think. That’s Eastern Europe? Right? I hope Ms. Margo doesn’t read this. She’s my history teacher and I’m supposed to know this stuff. Whatever. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, as my mother liked to say.

The girls, we look after each other. Doesn’t matter where we came from, if we were rich or poor, the color of our skin (and all the colors are represented). What matters is we’re here, in this life together. This place forces fast friendships. Some of the clients can be difficult, but you can’t say no to them unless you’re really scared. If you do get scared then you scream, RABBIT RABBIT as loud as you can. Tasha told me people say Rabbit Rabbit at the start of a new month. I guess it’s supposed to bring good luck or something. Down here it brings Casper. Casper’s a big fat guy who shuttles the clients from the waiting area to the girls’ rooms. Casper always wears loose black T-shirts that are as big as sails and black pants and a black baseball hat. He has lots of tattoos and so many gold chains I can’t believe he can walk, let alone run, but boy, can he move fast. Nobody really messes with the girls because nobody wants to mess with Casper.

If you do scream Rabbit Rabbit you better have a good reason for calling him. If you’re not getting hurt real bad, or cut, or something like that, you just have to do what’s asked of you, do what the client wants.

That’s the job.

There’s a waiting area with a sofa, TV, and refrigerator full of beer. Buggy sometimes works with Casper, bringing clients to the girls, taking money, that sort of thing. I’ve seen Ricardo a few times. He’s back, but I don’t know where he’s been and he won’t say. He’s been super sweet to me though, like the old Ricardo. We’ve had sex a few times. I don’t even think about all the things he’s done to me. The sex means nothing. It’s empty. It’s like a cough, something that happens, something I can’t control but I know will end at some point. I don’t feel anything when we’re doing it. I don’t think I feel anything at all anymore.

When I’m not locked in the apartment, I’m in the room down below. I wait for the clients to show up and do what’s asked of me. I always close my eyes during it, unless they tell me to open them. If I have to look, I pretend it’s Ricardo on top of me and we’re back in the other apartment, back when I was JBar and he was my photographer.

It’s become a bit of a routine, this life of mine. Sleep. Pills. Smokes. Coffee. The room. The men. How the hell did I get here? I keep asking myself that question. I don’t even know where I am. Baltimore? DC? Some other city? The girls won’t tell me. They’ve been told not to tell me, I should clarify. But that’s okay. They’re still nice to me. I need them as friends so I don’t get mad at them for keeping it a secret. Sometimes we go out to dinner, me and the other girls. But of course somebody is always watching us. Ricardo, Buggy, Casper . . . somebody is always watching.

The other girls all look like Tasha—hard, worn out like the armchair in my apartment. Worn out like the springs on the metal bed down below. I get whatever money Casper doles out, which isn’t much for the work I’m doing. But I take it and I don’t complain because if I do, I might get burned, or choked, or hit, or threatened with a knife, or Ricardo and Casper might do all the things they said they’d to do to my mom or my dad if I tried to get away. What choice do I have? I guess when I’m out to dinner with the girls I could go to the bathroom and sneak out a back door or something and just start running. But what if I get caught? What if they come looking for me? What if they catch me? I know whenever I get back home, if I ever get home, people will ask me why I didn’t run. But what do they know?

They’ve never been inside the hole.

CHAPTER 23

I
t was after five on Monday evening and Angie had been in her car on a stakeout for more than three hours. She’d found parking on the street with good sight lines to the front entrance of the Ashton apartments at Judiciary Square. These puppies rented for between five and ten grand a month, so whatever Mr. Tall, Bald, and Handsome did for a living, it was highly profitable.

That morning she had awoke in the same Hilton Garden Inn (no bad dreams, thank goodness) with nothing in her inbox, no name, no address, and no plan for the day. Yesterday marked two months since Nadine ran away. Angie went to the hotel lobby where they served a continental breakfast featuring muffins the size and consistency of hockey pucks and coffee that was little more than brown colored water. The joys of her job were plentiful. She bailed on breakfast, returned to her room, showered, did some stretching and light calisthenics, and afterwards went for a walk. Her body was stiff from three sleepless nights and her stomach rumbled with hunger. On her route, she stumbled on a Jamba Juice and put away another green smoothie.

She returned to the hotel and still had received nothing on her target, so she checked in with her father (he was doing fine, keeping busy at work), and updated Carolyn Jessup on her progress.

“So this guy has Nadine?”

Over the phone it was hard to tell if Carolyn had been drinking. It was after ten, so anything was possible. More obvious was that Carolyn’s distress and worry hadn’t lessened with the passing days.

“We don’t know,” Angie said. “I’m still trying to figure out this guy’s name. It could turn out to be nothing, but it’s a promising lead. I’ll get back to you soon as I have more to share.”

More
came a few hours later when DocuFind returned a name. The vehicle matching the license plate Angie had uploaded to the search service belonged to Ivan Markovich. She spent the rest of the morning digging up information about Markovich, including a copy of his driver’s license straight from the DMV. Sure enough, the picture matched the handsome guy with the buzz cut she had followed in the mall.

Using InteliSearch, a different subscription database for PIs, she ran a background check. In a few hours, she compiled a thin dossier on Markovich that included information on his parents. The best way to understand the man was to know his past, she believed.

Markovich was a thirty-five-year-old Russian American businessman who would turn thirty-six in January. His mother was from Indiana and his father from Saint Petersburg. They’d married exactly thirty-five years ago, and Angie wondered if little Ivan was already in the womb when vows were exchanged. She found court filings granting Markovich’s parents a divorce only a few years after the marriage, when Ivan was five. Another record showed Markovich’s mother had died two years after the divorce, but there wasn’t any mention of the cause. Before divorce and death, the Markovich family had lived in Egg Harbor Township, and both mom and dad had W-2s from the casinos in nearby Atlantic City.

Markovich’s father had a few brushes with law—two drunken driving arrests and a couple assault charges—but served no jail time. His offspring had no criminal record and no siblings. A real estate database revealed the father sold the Egg Harbor home for a decent profit a few years after the mother died.

Angie couldn’t find any trace of the family until Ivan Markovich applied for a business license to start an import-export company in the District of Columbia he called IM International. Markovich had never been married, or at least she couldn’t find any marriage certificate on record. There wasn’t much on his business, either. No website, no description of what he bought and sold. Either business was booming or he had another way to afford his nice car and fancy address. Maybe what he imported was young girls like Nadine, who had no experience and only one thing of value to offer.

The posh address was Markovich’s only listed residence. He didn’t own other property, but in terms of assets he was hardly an easy book to read. In addition to the import-export company, he was a listed founder on a reinsurance business, and had various holdings in a number of entities Angie couldn’t begin to untangle without returning to her office.

Bao could, though.

He groaned after Angie explained during a phone call what she needed. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothing but treat me with kindness and respect. Which is why I’ll treat you to a new board and a bump in pay once this case is closed.”

“Promise. I’m on it even without the carrot. How’s it going for you?”

“My legs hurt, my back hurts, my car stinks, I stink, I feel bloated and gross, and if I drink another green juice I might hurl.”

“Guessing you’re on stakeout. Still in DC?”

“That I am. I traced the handsome bald guy to a fancy apartment near Judiciary Square. I checked the garage, and he’s parked there now. So I’m just waiting to see if he comes out.”

Angie shook off the memories and looked up to the third floor of Swank Central where Markovich lived. He had a lovely view of a highway onramp, an empty lot, and a vacant office complex across the way. The kind of money he spent on accommodations might have bought him a luxury interior, but it didn’t get him a scenic vista.

How he could afford such a crappy view was a question she hoped Bao could help answer.

Obtaining bank and financial records is a big no-no without a court order, but some legal maneuverings were available to her and others in her trade. UCC statements might be on file in Washington or another state if Markovich put any personal property up for collateral. There might be civil litigation, probate and corporate filings. Maybe he had something on file with the SEC. Was he invested in a non-profit? Markovich might use shell companies for what those in the know called asset protection. Money and property could also be placed into trusts. It usually wasn’t a problem to get a court order to obtain trust documents, but Angie had seen cases where a company in Delaware owned the trust, with no name attached. The game was to erect financial barriers to keep the diggers out and the lawsuit liability to a minimum. All of it was legal, too.

She had a gut feeling about Markovich. His interaction with Nadine and the predatory behavior she’d observed at the mall had sealed it. What she needed was something concrete, something that might lead her to the young runaway.

The hours dragged on and the waiting became tedious. Markovich hadn’t left the apartment. Twice she had snuck into a nearby Starbucks to use the bathroom and got lucky. Markovich’s car was still in the garage when she got back. A second set of eyes was the only way to run this stakeout, and those eyes showed up just when she needed to use the bathroom once more.

Mike Webb wore a typical outfit for him—plaid shirt with khaki pants—and was out of breath when he tapped on her car window.

She lowered her window and smiled at him. “How far away did you park?” It had to be a mile away, judging by how hard he was breathing.

“A couple blocks from here,” Mike said, hands on his knees. “I ran because you said to hurry. Sorry, just have to catch my breath.”

Angie arched an eyebrow. “I think we may need a fitness standard for the agency.”

He held up a bag from Subway with what Angie guessed were two sandwiches inside.

“Let’s start now, ’cause I’m thinking of ‘fit-n-ess’ this meatball sub into my mouth.”

Angie laughed. “I think I saw that on some Internet meme.”

“I get all my jokes recycled.” His breathing less labored, Mike sat in the front seat beside Angie and fished her sandwich out of the bag.

“What are you doing?” Angie asked. “We can’t both sit in the car. It’s a bit conspicuous, don’t you think?”

“You said you had to go to the bathroom. I was just going to hang out here until you got back. If he flees while you pee, I gotta fly, right?”

Angie returned a wink and made sure the keys were in the ignition. “Leave my sandwich on the seat. I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t think you can call lettuce, tomato, pickles, and olives a sandwich. It’s more like a salad on bread. It’s like a salwich.” Mike looked impressed with himself. “Hey, do you think that’s trademarked?”

“I think you should stick to PI work and bouncy houses. Though I should say thanks for coming down here on such short notice. This stakeout will be a lot easier with you here.”