Forgive Me (37 page)

Bryce ended the call and thanked Ray for his time. He didn’t have to explain the reason for his sudden departure.

Bryce and Ray were cut from the same cloth.

CHAPTER 49

W
hen Angie arrived at the house Thursday night, she found her father watching a Nats game with Walter Odette and drinking a beer, which he’d sworn off of since his acid reflux flare-up.

Angie said, “Walt, could I have a few minutes alone with my dad?”

Both Walt and the sofa springs groaned as he rose to his feet. “Wish my ligaments came with a warranty. I could use some new ones. Gabe, I’m gonna head home. Louise is expecting me for dinner. We’ll catch up later. Still up for the range this weekend?”

“For sure,” Gabe said with a smile. Stashed in a gun safe down in the basement, he kept three pistols—a Glock 75, a Ruger 22/45, and a CZ 75.

Angie knew her weaponry, and her father’s choices were good ones for the gun range—comfortable to shoot, with light recoil. Heavy firearms did a number on joints and muscles when firing thousands of rounds at targets. She had gone shooting with Walt and her dad plenty of times, and it was always a fun bonding experience.

Drinking beer and shooting guns; clearly her father was feeling much better.

Walt gave Angie a kiss on the cheek before he departed. “Are you okay, kiddo? You look a little tired.”

“I’m fine, Uncle Walt,” Angie said, but she wasn’t fine, not really. She was worried about what her dad was going to say, what he might reveal.

As soon as Walt was gone, she headed to the kitchen and returned carrying a folder containing all of her research documents. She spread the documents out on the coffee table and got her father to relocate to the sofa so they could view them together. Included among the various papers was the picture of Isabella Conti.

Angie showed her father the familiar photograph. “Mom knew this little girl. She was the daughter of a mobster named Antonio Conti.” She went through her findings in brief, giving her father a quick recap of Conti’s tumultuous life in New York City during the heyday of the Mob in the 1980’s.

After she finished, Gabriel looked at Angie with a blank expression. “Honey, I have no idea what your mother’s connection is to this Antonio Conti fellow. None whatsoever.”

Angie noticed a change in her father’s expression, not a hint of deception, but a fearful look in his eyes. Was he thinking his wife had had an affair, had betrayed him? Angie flashed back to the conversation she’d had with her dad while on stakeout in Baltimore. The memory of Kathleen DeRose remained pristine; she still existed in that state of suspended animation.

“Don’t just think about what the answers mean to you, Angie. Think about what it could do to me.”
Her father’s words had been impactful, and yet she couldn’t stop seeking answers, no matter what the consequences of the truth might be.

“Dad, I’m sorry to keep bringing this up. Who is this girl to Mom, and why does she want forgiveness? I have to know.”

Gabriel gave Angie’s hand a squeeze. “I understand. I really do. And I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

Angie tried not to let her frustration show. Again she thought of a maze without an exit.

She made dinner for her father—chicken parm (his favorite), light on the parm (not his favorite). She was doing the dinner dishes when Bryce called with some unsettling news. Ivan Markovich was on the lam. For the moment, solving the Isabella Conti mystery wasn’t Angie’s top concern.

Nadine was.

Angie phoned the Jessup residence from her car. She had left her father in a hurry with a kiss good-bye and a promise to visit later in the week. Her plan was to return to her office and continue with her research, but first, Nadine. Someone had to warn her that Markovich had gone missing. Nadine wasn’t at home, but Carolyn was and she sounded more lucid than the last time they’d spoken. There wasn’t even the trace of a slur. They exchanged some pleasantries before Angie shared the disquieting news.

“I know,” Carolyn said. “The police and some people from the FBI came by and did a wellness check.”

“Are they still there?” Angie asked.

“No. They left awhile ago. They’re not going to stake out our place or anything. I guess because there wasn’t a specific threat against Nadine. Do you think she’s in any danger?” Carolyn asked.

“I don’t think so,” Angie said. “But I can’t be certain. She should be careful. Maybe not stray too far from home.”

“She and Sophia have been going to Baltimore lately,” Carolyn said.

Angie almost slammed on the brakes for no reason. “Baltimore? What on earth for?”

“They’ve been seeing a woman named Tasha. I think she was one of the girls from the apartment.”

“Yes, she was. What’s Nadine doing with Tasha?”

“I don’t know and I haven’t pushed her to tell me.”

“Well, maybe you should.” Angie regretted the words soon as they left her mouth. It wasn’t her place to tell Carolyn how to parent her daughter.

“I have asked, just so you know, but I’m not being demanding about it. I don’t want to push Nadine away again. And besides, I’m almost a week sober and a nasty confrontation with my daughter might upset the delicate truce I have forged between my desire and the booze. I have an AA meeting to go to right now, in fact.”

“I’m sorry for what I said. It’s not my place, and that’s wonderful news about AA. Keep it up, Carolyn. I’m really proud of you. I mean it. And please have Nadine give me a call when she can. But tell her it’s not urgent.”

And it wasn’t urgent. The more Angie thought about it, the more she understood the FBI’s lack of response. Markovich didn’t disappear to go hunting after one of his sixteen-year-old victims.

He had vanished to get away for good.

The next evening, Madeline Hartsock leaned her thin frame against the doorway to Angie’s office and cleared her throat to get her friend’s attention.

Angie peered out from behind a computer monitor, held up a finger—
just a moment
. The movie, a new action flick starring the ever-youthful Tom Cruise, was starting in thirty minutes and Maddy’s impatient expression made it clear they were going to be late if Angie didn’t stop what she was doing right then.

Angie wasn’t in the mood for a movie, and regretted accepting Maddy’s invitation. She was reeling from a triple-whammy of disappointing news. Ivan Markovich was still missing and actively being sought by the U.S. Marshals along with other law enforcement types. Bryce’s contact at the Marshals Service was in the dark about what had happened to the Contis, and had no clue who they might have become after they went into witness protection. And most discouraging of all was her father’s failure to react to the name Antonio Conti. Her mother was connected to the mobster, and Angie felt certain he and her father had traveled in the same circles at some point. Frustrating. Angie had finally identified the girl in the photograph, and it didn’t make a lick of difference.

Madeline glanced at her phone for the third time in a minute. “Angie, come on. Take a break, will you?”

Mike Webb appeared in the doorway behind Madeline. His sudden arrival was unannounced and unexpected. He wore gym shorts and a sweat-stained gray jersey. A blue sweatband was stretched across his head. “Mind if I use the can?”

His voice startled Maddy and caused her to jump a little. She moved aside to let Mike into the office.

“You came here just to go to the bathroom?” Angie tried to minimize the degree of her eye roll.

“I was playing pickup hoops down the street and I didn’t think I could make it home, if you know what I mean.”

“TMI, Mike,” Angie said, motioning toward the bathroom door. “TMI.”

Mike dashed into the bathroom and emerged moments later with a smile on his face.

“Better?” Angie asked.

“Much. Sorry. I didn’t think anybody would be here at this hour.”

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Madeline said with obvious disappointment. “We’re supposed to be at the movies, and now I think I’m going to go by myself unless you can help unglue Miss DeRose from her computer.”

“Conti?” Mike asked, knowing how overwhelming her obsessions could be.

“Yeah, Conti,” Angie said.

“Maddy’s right, Ange,” Mike said. “Take a break. Go see a movie. Isabella isn’t in any immediate danger, if you know what I’m saying.”

“You think she’s dead.”

“If you believe the code Bao broke, then yes. She’s dead.”

“But it’s also the same date they were supposed to go into witness protection.”

“A metaphorical death is still a death,” Mike said.

Maddy sighed. “Ange, remember how much fun we had in New York? Just take a breather from it all. You’ll get the answers later.”

New York . . .

Maddy’s reference brought Angie back to their recent visit with Jean Winter. Something Jean said had been simmering in Angie’s subconscious ever since. It seemed inconsequential at the time, but now Angie wasn’t so sure.

Life is too short for petty differences.

Those were Jean’s words, and it was also, Angie believed, a possible answer. She cringed because it was so damn obvious.

“Maddy, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to skip the movie. I’ll pay for my ticket.”

At the same time, Mike nonchalantly opened the top drawer of a three-drawer file cabinet and fished out a Snickers bar from one of the file folders within. He used his teeth to pry open the wrapper.

Angie frowned. “You store candy in my file drawer?”

“I thought you knew. I file it under
S
, for Snickers.”

“I’ve been looking under
C
, for candy,” Angie said with an edge.

“Come on, Angie,” Maddy said. “Please go. I’m dying to see this movie.”

“Say, I might go,” Mike said. “What’s the movie?”

“The new Tom Cruise.”

“Oh yeah? Hmmmm . . .” Mike took a bite of his candy bar and chewed it slowly.

Angie didn’t answer Maddy. She was too busy looking through another set of files in the cabinet compartment of her desk. She had one of her mother’s death certificates in there someplace. She was sure of it.

“Hello,” Maddy said. “Earth to Angie. Come in, Angie. What are you doing?”

“All these years I’ve respected my mother’s wishes about her family,” Angie said. “I never asked to speak with them. I had nothing to do with them. But Jean is right. Life is too short for petty differences.”

Mike suddenly got interested. “You’re going to contact your mom’s family?”

“Yes,” Angie said. “And I’m going to ask them about Isabella and Antonio Conti.”

“Cool,” Mike said. “How are you going to find them?”

Angie fished out the death certificate—a life summarized and encapsulated on a standard size sheet of paper. It was an official looking document, designed to be hard to forge, and authorized by the state of Virginia. On it was Kathleen DeRose’s social security number. “With this,” she said, holding up the certificate for Mike to see.

“A death certificate? How’s that going to help?” he asked

“I’m going to get my mom’s social security application,” Angie said.

“What for?”

Maddy seemed to forget about the movie as she walked behind Angie’s desk for a better look. Angie showed Mike and Maddy her browser window, which was open to a webpage on the Social Security Information website. The web page header read E
LECTRONIC
F
REEDOM
OF
I
NFORMATION
A
CT
.
The sub-header read R
EQUEST
FOR
D
ECEASED
I
NDIVIDUAL
’
S
S
OCIAL
S
ECURITY
R
ECORD
.
Specifically, Form SSA-711.

“Applying for a social security number requires all sorts of information about a birth, including family and employment details,” Angie said. “Lucky for me, the Paperwork Reduction Act put access to all this information online.”

Mike acted impressed. “How’d you know all that?”

Angie shot him a sideways glance. “We’re private investigators, Mike. It’s kind of our job to know these things.”

Mike got the subtext. “Right,” he said, acting like he knew. “I just forgot for a moment, that’s all.”

Angie gave him a weak smile, then returned to the web page. She was excited about her potential discovery, and felt no guilt about not heeding her dead mother’s wishes in regards to their extended family.

Mike took another bite of his Snickers bar.

Angie filled in the form. She gave special attention to the required fields and selected the option to pay a sixteen dollar fee for a computer extract of the social security card application. Angie entered her mother’s name as Kathleen Eleanor DeRose, provided the date of birth, gender, and her mother’s social security number. When all that was done, she took in a breath and held it. Maddy placed a comforting hand on Angie’s shoulder.

“Well, this is it,” Angie said, her eyes glued to the computer pointer hovering over the
SUBMIT
button on the web form.

In a moment, Angie’s maternal grandparents would materialize on the computer extract. From there, it would be a relatively easy task to track them down or locate other relatives on her mother’s side if her grandparents were dead.

Angie felt a sudden wave of sadness for all she had missed. What had been gained from keeping separate lives? Walt and Louise were fine substitutes for her blood relatives, but she craved a deeper knowledge, a connection with her past, and once more, Jean Winter’s words came to her.
Life is too short for petty differences.

Angie hit the SUBMIT button and waited. The web page reloaded, but with an unexpected red letter error message posted at the top of the form.

N
O
APPLICATION
FOUND
.

Additional prompts implied that Angie might have entered the wrong information, a mistyped number perhaps. She checked and everything was correct as documented on the death certificate, so she hit SUBMIT again, counting on it having been a technical glitch. The web page loaded again and the same error message displayed. N
O
APPLICATION
FOUND
.