Forgive Me (32 page)

Nadine kept her gaze locked on Sarah’s picture. “Sarah Winter,” she repeated. “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” Angie said. “She went missing my senior year of college. I’m keeping her picture up on the wall until I find her. She’ll be the only picture I’ll ever take down.”

“I’m glad I’m going to be on the wall now,” Nadine said.

Angie took hold of Nadine’s hand. “So am I, Nadine. So am I.”

CHAPTER 41

I
t was a four-hour drive from Alexandria to Basking Ridge, New Jersey where Sarah Winter once lived with her mother, Jean. Madeline Hartsock did most of the driving. Her SUV was roomy, and it allowed Angie to spread out and do her work.

The work involved searching (or at least trying to search) social security records for people with the initials I.C. who had been born on January 2, 1984 and who’d died on March 4, 1988. The database Angie used for her search, a product called ConnectXP, was the best on the market for locating people and researching connections.

It was an expensive tool, but one Angie had used countless times for her business. She was hoping it would solve a mystery that had begun some thirty-two years before the advent of electronic records. She wasn’t having much luck. Her 4G LTE adapter gave Angie access to ConnectXP’s online database, but the result set returned was too broad for the search function. It would obviously help if she had a first and last name. She had checked with Bao, but there were too many combinations for him to sift through programmatically. Angie needed more information, and was deeply frustrated by her lack of progress.

Maddy, hidden beneath her oversized sunglasses and looking cute in a scoop neck T-shirt and jeans, tried to lift Angie from her sullen mood. “How about some music?” she suggested, turning on the radio to let a pop tune blare out from the car speakers.

Angie gave a stern look. Off went the music.

“Aaaand we’ll just cruise along in silence,” Madeline said.

“Thank you,” Angie said.

“What is the issue, if I may ask?”

Angie explained all her roadblocks.

“What about looking up I.C.’s birth certificate?”

“I looked into that,” Angie said. “In New York, the physical archives start before 1910. For anything after that, I need more information—a first and last name, specifically.”

“So I’m guessing Ancestary.com is out.”

“Yeah,” Angie said, feeling her frustration bubble once more.

“How about we let it go for now,” Maddy said. “Let’s focus on Jean. We’re here for her and Sarah.”

Angie agreed in principle, but she couldn’t let it go.

The front door opened almost the same instant Madeline pulled into the driveway. Jean was waiting for the girls to show up, as she had waited for them once a year for thirteen years. Her ranch-style home was lovely, nothing too fancy, just right for a single woman who had divorced when Sarah was in high school and never remarried. For all Angie knew, Jean had never dated, either. She was very private. Happy to discuss most any topic so long as it didn’t pertain to her personal life.

The home had a living room instead of a family room, a kitchen with hardwood floors instead of tile, a cat instead of a dog. Nothing about Sarah Winter’s childhood home was notable, except for the absence of Sarah.

Jean had short dark hair and a kind, round face. She looked marvelous for a woman of any age, let alone someone in her late sixties. The wrinkles were there, along with other pesky signs of aging, but a Zen quality and a peacefulness from a deeper place radiated from her, making those years seem less taxing.

The women played catch up as drinks were made—vodka tonics, as was the tradition. It was also tradition for Madeline and Angie to spend the night. Jean had two guest rooms now. The room where Sarah Winter once slept wasn’t a shrine to a missing daughter anymore. Sarah’s belongings had been boxed up and stowed away long ago.

In some ways—many ways, perhaps—dead was easier. At least it came with closure.

Conversation turned to talk of Angie’s mother. Jean apologized for not being at the service. She’d had a funeral for a relative that unfortunately fell on the same day.

“It must have been very well attended,” Jean said. “Your mother was so involved with her community.”

The three women were seated in the living room, snacking on spinach and artichoke dip and White Trash Puff Balls, as Jean called them—pepperoni and cream cheese wrapped up by a Pillsbury crescent dinner roll. Years ago, Angie had been too skeptical to try it. One bite, and any apprehension fell away. There was a time for healthy eating, and it wasn’t when she visited Jean Winter.

“Friends, but no family except Dad and me,” Angie said.

“Your mother was an only child?” Jean asked.

“I don’t actually know,” said Angie. “I never knew any of her family. There’d been some kind of feud before I was born.”

“A feud? What about?” Jean asked.

That’s funny,
Angie thought. The topic had never come up with Jean in all those years because they hadn’t had any reason to broach the subject. Angie had pressed her parents for information, but it wasn’t something she openly discussed with others.

“The feud was over me, I guess,” Angie said. “My mom was pregnant and unmarried, and her family wasn’t too keen on my dad. Some heated words were exchanged, and I guess things got a bit out of hand. My mom hadn’t spoken to her family since.”

Jean pursed her lips. “Such a shame. Why do we let these things get in our way? Life is too short for petty differences.” She was being more candid and forthright than usual. Maybe it was the vodka talking, or maybe, with Sarah gone and almost certainly dead, she was speaking from experience.

Whatever the reason, Angie believed she was right.

The drive home usually involved a detour north to New York City. Angie wasn’t big on shopping the way Madeline was, but she enjoyed the energy and the food, and sometimes they snagged last minute tickets to a Broadway show.

This year, though, Angie asked to skip New York altogether.

Madeline couldn’t mask her disappointment.

“It’s the photograph, isn’t it?”

“Hard to let go and have fun,” Angie admitted.

“Well, now I’m pissed.”

“At me?”

“No, at this damn problem of yours. It’s keeping me from New York. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“I’m getting a coffee so I can jumpstart my brain. I think it’s time for a fresh set of eyes on this problem.”

“Whatever it takes to inspire your brilliance, I’m all for it.”

Madeline pulled into a strip mall and they marched into a Starbucks. Some male eyes tracked Maddy’s approach to the counter area, as male eyes often did. Angie got a black coffee and Madeline ordered something that sounded like she was speaking a foreign language. Angie was five sips into her beverage before Madeline’s drink showed up with a little Mount Everest of whipped cream on the top.

“How can you drink that after those White Trash Puff Balls?”

Madeline made a wide circle with her arms that encompassed them both. “This is a judgment free zone. Okay?” She took a big sip of her drink and spooned a finger full of whipped cream into her mouth.

“Not judging,” Angie said. “I’m jealous.”

Madeline handed over her straw. Angie used it take a dollop of whipped cream for herself and then a sip of something with a delightful caramel aftertaste.

“So, any ideas?” Angie asked.

Madeline went silent for a time, thinking. “One,” she eventually announced.

Angie leaned closer, her excitement showing. Madeline was as brilliant as she was beautiful, and when she had an idea, Angie listened.

“I’m all ears.”

“So your mom mails a check every year to this ear place,” Madeline began.

“Yes, the MCEDC,” Angie said.

“Call them.”

“Why?”

“Maybe Mom made the gift in I.C.’s memory,” Madeline said with a smile.

Angie beamed. “Why the heck didn’t I think of that?”

“Sometimes we’re too close to the problem to see the solution.”

Angie’s moment of elation was short lived. “It’s Sunday. The place will be closed.”

Madeline patted Angie on the hand. “My dearest, this mystery has been waiting to be answered for over thirty years. I think it can wait one more day. And that means we can head north to New York City without even a hint of guilt to get in our way.” She put away another heap of whipped cream balanced miraculously on the end of her straw and gave Angie a wink.

Tuesday afternoon, noon sharp, Angie picked up the phone and dialed the number for the MCEDC in Burbank, California. Mike and Bao were on assignment—new jobs, something other than the Nadine Jessup case. They couldn’t help identity I.C. any more than Angie could.

She still felt tired from the weekend. She and Maddy had caught a three o’clock showing of
Chicago
, then poked around Rockefeller Center until after eight. Maddy had crashed at Angie’s place a little after midnight and got up at 5:00
A
.
M
.
so she could get to work on time. Even though yesterday was Memorial Day, they both had had to work. Runaways and sex crimes didn’t take holidays.

For Angie, the entire weekend was well worth the sleep deprivation. She had desperately needed some laughs and got plenty, along with some girlfriend advice about Bryce Taggart, who’d texted her while she and Maddy were dining at a Greek restaurant in midtown Manhattan. She thought back to the conversation.

“He wants to take me out Saturday night,” Angie said to Maddy, reading Bryce’s text.

“Tell him to send a selfie. I need a visual.”

“I can’t do that,” Angie said, mortified.

“Well then, let me see his Facebook.”

Angie searched Bryce Taggart’s name on her Facebook app, but didn’t find his profile.

“He’s a U.S. marshal,” Angie said. “You’re a DA and have an unlisted phone number.”

“Good point,” Maddy said. “Plenty of creepers out there. Okay, here’s my take. It would be better if you could just grab a coffee. But coming up from Baltimore for a date, we’re talking commitment. You’ve got to plan for at least three hours. Can you handle that? Are you prepared?”

“I already had coffee with him,” Angie said. “He’s easy to talk to.”

“And cute?”

“Yeah, he’s hot.”

“In that case, what are you asking me for? Much as I love you, Ange, I don’t want to be
Thelma and Louise: The Geriatric Years.
Go out with him.”

Angie had accepted Bryce’s invitation with a text reply and was looking forward to seeing him in six days, but it wasn’t the most important thing on her mind. She was too focused on the call to the ear institute. She held the picture of I.C. in her hand, while holding her breath. Her emotions vacillated between hope and dread.

A voice, noticeably softened with age, answered on the third ring, “Microtia-Congenital Ear Deformity Center. This is Dot speaking. How may I help you?”

“Yes, um, my name is Angie DeRose and I’m calling from Alexandria, Virginia.”

“Yes, Angie, what can I do for you?”

Angie explained the situation. Dot listened patiently then said she would have to check the records and would get back to Angie later in the day.

Later could not come soon enough. Angie managed to catch up on paperwork and completed the expense report for Greg Jessup, who owed them quite a chunk of change for the retrieval of his daughter. Nadine hadn’t called or texted since her visit to the office, but Angie thought about her all the time. She wanted to take Nadine out for lunch, just the two of them. It wasn’t Angie’s place to keep tabs on the girl’s welfare, but she couldn’t help herself. The last time she had gotten that emotionally attached to a case had brought Bao into her life.

At four o’clock in the afternoon, her phone rang.

“Yes, hello. Angie here.”

“Hi Angie, this is Dot from the MCEDC.”

Angie’s heart began to race. A feeling of excitement covered her like a second skin.

“I’m afraid we have no record of your mother making the donation about anyone specific. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.”

Angie sighed aloud. She felt trapped in a giant maze, with so many dead ends she began to wonder if a way out existed.

“Now you said this was all from a photograph you found, is that correct?” Dot sounded eager to help.

“That’s right,” Angie said.

“Might you send it to me? I’ve worked here for thirty-five years. My son had the condition, and I became a volunteer and eventually an employee. Maybe I’d recognize the girl if she was ever a patient here. I couldn’t give you her name, of course, but I could give her yours and maybe she’d get in touch.”

“I’m afraid she’s deceased,” Angie said.

“Well in that case, we have nothing to lose, do we?”

Angie took a picture of the photograph and e-mailed it to Dot. It was faster than navigating her own mass of e-mails to look for the scan Mike had sent her. Dot received the image across the country about a second after Angie sent the attachment. Technology had made so many things easier, but it couldn’t help her identify a girl solely by her initials and date of birth and death. It was a long shot and she knew it, but Dot had been there for years, and maybe this little girl had been a patient once.

Dot made a sound, something between excitement and shock. “Angie, I know this girl.”

“You do?”

“But not because she was ever a patient here.”

“I’m not following.”

“Oh my,” Dot said. “What is your mother’s connection to her, I wonder?”

Angie wanted to scream, but managed to find the restraint. “I’m wondering the same,” she said, her voice a bit shaky. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Isabella Conti. I remember her only because I and the other parents with children who had Microtia thought we might finally get some much needed attention, some real publicity, which meant more funding for the condition.”