Forgive Me (3 page)

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meant Angie had entered a sleeping teenage boy’s bedroom with an ex-law-enforcement agent at her side. They woke the startled kid, and his parents had to explain that he’d be going away for a while, right then and there, non-negotiable. A car was waiting for him downstairs. Angie escorted the parents out of the boy’s bedroom while her partner made it clear who was in charge. They drove the teen a few hundred miles to a wilderness therapy program in southwestern Virginia, and Angie pocketed a thousand bucks for the effort. It was no problem donating fifty to her mom’s committee. She’d give more if she could.

“How is business going?” Kathleen asked.

“Busy,” Angie said. “Runaways and craptastic behavior seem to be recession-proof.”

“Any time for yourself?” Kathleen’s face showed concern.

Angie resisted the eye roll she had perfected in puberty. “Mom, are we doing this again?”

“Just look here.” Kathleen took out her smartphone and showed Angie a Tinder profile she had made—for Angie.

“Mom! What are you doing?”

“Well, I was curious, that’s all. I saw something about Tinder on 20/20, and it looked promising.”

“Please, stop.”

“Just look for a second. It’s fun. It uses your location so you see people who are near you. You swipe right if you like them and left if you don’t. Couldn’t be any easier! Oh, he’s cute.” Kathleen swiped right.

“Mom. Mom! No. We do not need to do this.”

The phone made a
ding
sound. Kathleen looked, and her face lit up. “He thinks you’re cute, too! And he’s just three blocks away.”

“Mom!”

“Well, it’s true. You are cute.”

“Dad, don’t encourage her.” Angie didn’t have trouble getting dates. What she had trouble with was keeping relationships. Any guy in Angie’s life had to play second fiddle to the phone. Out to dinner and a case came in—
sorry, gotta go
. In bed after a lovely wine-and-dine and a kid runs—
sorry, but gotta go
. Some guys would put up with Angie’s unpredictable workday for a time, but none stuck it out for the long haul.

So just as with Match.com, and eHarmony, and every set-up Angie’s friends had arranged, some Tinder guy would invariably find her long legs, raven hair, and green eyes attractive. They’d come up with some tactful (or not) way to compliment her sculpted figure and commend her for rocking jeans and an evening gown with equal aplomb. They’d appreciate how she could tackle a teenager twice her size and then cry at the end of
Pitch Perfect
, a movie she’d watch any time it was on. But they’d always, always, get tired of her phone.

The right guy was out there. Angie didn’t think he was on Tinder.

“Well, I’ll e-mail you your username and password. Just give it a try.”

“Your mother means well,” her father said.

“I think I’m a little jaded because of the job,” Angie admitted. “It’s eye-opening to see how much bad there is in the world. Between divorce and fighting over children, infidelity and cheating left and right, it’s hard. And it hasn’t gotten easier.”

“Maybe change careers.”

“I can’t walk away. I love it.”

“You love what’s hurting you,” Kathleen said. “Sounds dysfunctional to me.”

“Yeah, Mom. Well, love hurts.”

“Whatever you do, we’ll support you, you know that,” her father said.

Kathleen took hold of Gabriel’s hand. The gesture warmed Angie’s heart. This was what she wanted for herself some day. She’d been raised in a traditional, old-fashioned family, and after thirty-seven-years of marriage, Angie’s parents still held hands. They were always touching, or laughing, or looking at each other in a loving way. They argued, of course, but not with the sort of rage common among Angie’s clients. Gabriel and Kathleen DeRose had pedestrian disagreements, but nothing that caused lasting bitterness or resentment. As with lupus, there could be flare-ups followed by long periods of calm.

“Let’s just change the subject. How about that?” Angie said.

“Well, then ask me about the Arlington County Fair because that’s another story entirely,” Kathleen said with a roll of the eyes.

“You’re still doing that? I thought you resigned from the board last year.”

“They begged me to come back. How could I say no?”

“And she’s still teaching swimming,” Gabriel said. “Organizing registration now for when the pool opens in May.”

Angie did not look at all surprised. Swimming was something her mother had done for years to help lessen certain lupus symptoms. But Kathleen being Kathleen, she couldn’t just swim on her own. She had to do something on a larger scale, so she volunteered to teach swimming to disadvantaged DC youth every summer at a city pool.

“Guess Dad’s not the only one I’m worried about. You sure you’re not doing too much, Mom? The Arlington Fair board has always been such a headache.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s just nobody can agree on a theme for this year’s competitive exhibits. I’ve suggested ‘Expanded Horizons’ to celebrate all the opportunities Arlington has to offer, but of course Bill Gibbons has to object to just about everything.”

“I’m just thinking that maybe you should slow down a bit, that’s all.”

Even with lupus in the picture, Angie was more concerned about her father’s health than her mother’s. Kathleen looked splendid and healthy, stylish in her short, graying haircut. Her skin had a radiant glow, with wrinkles that implied more wisdom than age. At sixty, Angie’s mother was still a strikingly beautiful woman, with a kind face and blue eyes the color of the sea.

After the meal, Gabriel slid an oversized white envelope across the table in Angie’s direction. She could see it was unsealed and had no address.

“Dad, is this another prospectus? I still have a few you’ve given me that I haven’t had time to look over yet. Not that I don’t appreciate your financial advice.”

“No, it’s not that,” Gabriel said.

Angie caught something in her father’s eyes—a glimmer of concern, perhaps. She felt uneasy and a little bit nervous. “What is it?” she asked.

“Just open it, dear,” her mother said.

Angie took out the papers, and her chest tightened. “Mom, Dad, why this now? Are both of you okay?”

“We’re fine. We just need to have this talk, and your father thought now would be as good a time as any to make sure you know our wishes.”

“We’re the medical proxy for each other,” Gabriel said, “but if something were to happen to us both—”

“A car accident, for instance,” Kathleen tossed out.

“Okay. God forbid.”

“Just say, if it did, Angie,” Kathleen went on. “You’re an adult and it’s important you know our wishes.”

Angie glanced down at the sheet of paper that had the words A
DVANCED
H
EALTHCARE
D
IRECTIVE
splayed across the top of the page in bold lettering. Her parents had never discussed their end-of-life intentions with her. She skimmed the document. “No CPR, no mechanical ventilation, no tube feeding. What
do
you guys want?”

“Read it more carefully. It’s only if we’re brain dead, sweetheart,” Kathleen said.

Angie looked aghast. “Mom! Please.”

Gabriel spoke up. “You’re our only child, so we’re counting on you for this. Walt and Louise did this with their kids, and it’s high time we did it with ours.”

Walter and Louise Odette were her parents’ neighbors, but Angie had grown up calling them Uncle Walt and Aunt Louise. The Odettes were the closest thing she had to blood relatives. Her mother and father no longer had contact with their extended families.

Gabriel said, “I also have a will I want you to look over, and instructions on where to find our assets and how to claim them. That sort of thing.”

Angie wasn’t a child. She understood her parents would die one day, but she hoped that day would be a long time coming. She was adult enough to have this conversation, but that didn’t make it any less sad or awkward. “What I want to do is talk about you two taking a trip to Bermuda or someplace warm and fun. Maybe a cruise. Hell, maybe I’ll join you.”

“You know I think those are just Petri dishes on waves,” Kathleen said.

“That’s not the point, Mom. This is a little depressing, and I already have a lot of depressing things to deal with back at work.” Angie slipped the papers back inside the envelope. “I’ll look this over tonight and call you with questions. But what I want is to not need these papers for a long, long time.”

“Yes, agreed,” Kathleen said.

“Now, how about dessert? Who’s with me?”

Angie’s phone rang. It always rang. She spoke in crisp, short sentences, every word purposeful and to the point. Her eyes narrowed while her parents waited in silence.

Angie got up from the table and slipped her phone back into her purse. “Got to take a rain check on that dessert, you two,” she said, coming around the table to kiss her parents on their cheeks. “It’s a runaway.”

CHAPTER 3

A
ngie worked in a modest but respectable space, with walls painted eggshell white, a dropped ceiling, phone, Internet, and a plug-in kettle so she could sip green tea whenever the spirit moved her (which happened often).

Carolyn Jessup sat across from her, gazing hopefully at the framed photos lining the walls. They were pictures of the many families whose children Angie had helped to reunite. Well, first she found the runaway kids, and then she reunited the families. Not all her on own, either—better-trained resources helped handle reintegration, from organizations such as the NCMEC—National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Angie wasn’t present in all the photographs on her wall, but she was a major part of every operation.

Among the many pictures was one of Angie and Sarah Winter, arms draped around each other, goofy smiles on their faces, looking as if they’d have a million tomorrows. Unlike the other photographs, Sarah’s picture would stay on the wall until the day she was found.

Carolyn had supplied pages of biographical details on Nadine and her family. Angie carefully read through them all. She knew right away she’d need help on the case. The sign on Angie’s office door read D
E
R
OSE
& A
SSOCIATES
, P
RIVATE
I
NVESTIGATORS
, but
& Associates
was an exaggeration. Angie’s tax return did not list any additional employees on the payroll. She did, however, have an extensive network to tap whenever she needed to farm out jobs or required a skill outside her area of expertise.

Angie’s specialty was finding runaways, but her office also handled computer forensics, transport, and surveillance work—all areas where she called on her network of colleagues.

Despite the proximity, people from Maryland seldom crossed the river to Virginia. DC was fine, but they typically didn’t go any farther. If the police had given Carolyn a referral, it was probably to a PI based out of Silver Spring or Bethesda. Carolyn must have done her homework, ignored geography, and gone with the investigator who had the best reputation for finding runaways.

“Where do we start?” Carolyn asked. “How do we do this?” Her nervousness was as evident as her drinking problem. According to her driver’s license, she was a decade older than Angie, but looked twice that. Most of the luster had been squeezed out of Carolyn’s straw-colored hair, and a strong odor of booze—gin, something hard—seeped from her pores. Broken capillaries spread across a reddened complexion like a road atlas. Her face was unnaturally bloated. What looked like blushing was probably alcohol-triggered rosacea.

Drugs and alcohol were corrosive as acid to the parental bond. Angie suspected they had played a role in this case. Nadine wouldn’t be the first. Four hundred thousand kids ran away from home each year, many to escape the ravages of addiction.

“What makes you think your daughter ran away and wasn’t taken?”

“She took her clothes. Her backpack. What abductor lets a girl pack before she’s taken?”

Angie curled her lip and gave a nod. Since she’d opened her agency, the number of children reported missing had increased each year. While the numbers were staggering, only a fraction—perhaps as few as 100 cases annually—fit the profile of abduction by a stranger or remote acquaintance. Family members represented the largest percentage of the abductions, well over 200,000 going by last year’s figures.

“Is there any chance Nadine is with her father?” Angie asked. “That he’s hiding her?”

Carolyn scoffed. “You think he took her? Ha, that’s a good one.”

“Why?”

“Because Greg loves Greg, and there’s not much room left for anyone else.” Carolyn made eye contact.

Angie saw no nervous tics, nothing to indicate deception. “According to you, he’s paying my bill.”

“And he was too busy with his work to be at this meeting,” Carolyn shot back. “Need I say more?”

No, you don’t,
Angie thought.

“Did you have a fight before your daughter ran away? Was there a specific incident that upset Nadine?”

“Nothing really.” Carolyn scrunched up her shoulders and scratched at her nose.

“Please, Carolyn. Let’s just be honest here. Lying won’t help us find Nadine. So let’s try again. Was there a fight the night before she ran away?”

Carolyn dabbed at her eyes, and the gesture seemed authentic. “I wouldn’t call it a fight. It was just her stupid shoes. She left them in front of the closet and I tripped over them.”

Angie wondered if Carolyn had been too drunk to notice they were there.

“I sprained my ankle and had to miss work the next day. Maybe I used harsh language. I don’t really remember.”

“Was it the first time?”

The question hit Carolyn like a slap across the face. The anxious mother shrank into herself the way a hermit crab retreats into its shell. “We’ve had issues since Greg and I divorced.”

“What sort of issues?”

“You know, typical mother-daughter stuff.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“Nadine could be disrespectful, you know. She doesn’t understand how hard it is to be a single parent. How much pressure I have on me.”