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
It 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 a
nother 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.”
Angie made the bathroom run, but didn’t hurry. She stretched her legs and took in some fresh air. The sun had beat away the morning chill and a warm breeze carried with it all the fresh smells of spring. It was hard to trade the cloudless afternoon and scented air for the stench of her Taurus, but that was the job and she was prepared to do whatever it took.
When she returned, Mike had a strange look on his face. Angie got settled, unwrapped her “salwich” and noticed that he had devoured half of his sub. Evidently the new “fitness” program was off to a strong start.
“Got a present for you,” he said.
“I was wondering what that weird look of yours was all about.”
“The mother at my rental gig on Saturday has a brother who’s an ENT.”
“You mean EMT?”
“No, I mean ENT as in ear, nose, and throat doc. He was at the party for his nephew.”
A tickle of excitement came over Angie. She thought she knew where this was headed. “And?”
“We got to talking and I mentioned I had a case involving a girl with a deformed ear. I didn’t give him all the details or anything. He just told me to e-mail him the picture and while you were taking care of business just now, I got a response back.”
Angie’s excitement spiked higher. She had planned to follow up with a doctor on this very subject, but the Nadine search had sidetracked her. She was grateful Mike had taken the initiative. It was an important discovery. A medical issue, something possibly documented, could be useful as they tried to make a positive identification.
“What did he say?”
“He can’t be definite because he would have to see the girl in his office to be sure.”
“Understood. Just tell me what he said.”
“Okay, okay. He said it was”—Mike glanced at his phone—“Microtia-Congenital Ear Deformity.”
“What the heck is that?”
“I’ll read you his e-mail. ‘Hi Mike, nice to meet you at Audwin’s birthday.” Mike lowered his phone and made a look of disgust. “What’s up with these names today anyway? Who names their kid Audwin? ‘Oh what a cute little baby. I think I’ll name him—Audwin.’ What’s wrong with—I dunno—Mike or Jack, Billy, David, or something, you know, normal.”
“Different strokes for different folks,” Angie said, repeating a favorite phrase of Walt Odette’s. “Plenty of people would have differing opinions on your style of dress, for example.”
“What’s wrong with plaid and khaki? It never goes out of style.”
Angie had no patience for tangents. “Is this even relevant? Who cares what the kid’s name is. Read on.”
Mike continued. “‘The boys seemed to really enjoy the Ghost Mansion. What a hoot!’” Mike smiled at Angie. “It really is a spectacular bouncy house.”
“Will you please just get to the point?”
“Easy, easy.” Mike tossed his hands in the air. “I’m just reading his e-mail.”
“Fine. But read the important part, will you?”
“Okay—um. ‘The kids seemed to have a lot of fun. I’ll definitely pass your name around—blah blah blah. Okay, here we go.”
“Finally.”
Mike shot Angie a sidelong glance. “ ‘It is my best guess that the girl in the photograph has the classic Microtia. This is a congenital deformity where the external ear is underdeveloped. The condition occurs in one out of every ten thousand births. The right ear is most commonly affected, as is the case with this little girl. The angle makes it a bit difficult to make a determination with complete certainty, but the ear has a vertical skin appendage with a malformed lobule (that’s earlobe). If so, the firm tissue at the upper part of the ear is a disorganized cartilaginous vestige. If you do locate this girl, please let her know that we could reconstruct the earlobe using a piece of lobular tissue from the lower end. I hope this helps. Please e-mail or call if you have further questions. Good luck in your search. Best Regards, Dave Trumbull.’”
Angie mulled over this new information. “I never heard of that before.”
“Me neither,” Mike said. “But now we know. So, what now?”
The answer would have to wait. A black Cadillac Escalade exited the parking garage and rolled past Angie’s car. The license plate matched Markovich’s vehicle.
“Now, we follow,” she said.
She turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. Timing was critical. Pull out too fast and get burned, but waiting too long risked losing sight of Markovich. Angie let Markovich get down the block before she eased into the road.
They were on the move.
CHAPTER 24
Markovich was five cars ahead and easy enough to spot that Angie decided to pull over and let Mike out. He had returned to DC in his own car, a red Toyota Corolla, and it was best if they each had a vehicle on this tail. If one of them got caught in traffic or something, the other could relay location information by cell phone.
Mobile surveillance is a bit of an art form because every ‘how to do it right’ rule comes with an exception. The amount of traffic and the environment (road conditions, traffic lights, and such) dictated h
ow far back Angie would follow. Because of congestion, she wanted to be close. She got to within three cars of Markovich’s vehicle and would try to close that gap to two or even one at the next light if possible. The basic rule was the more traffic, the closer she had to follow.
Mike was easy to spot in her rearview mirror. She got him on the phone, using hands-free calling.
“There’s a major choke point up ahead,” Mike said. “Intersection between H and Sixth.”
Angie thanked him. Knowing ahead of time where the choke points were—places like intersections, toll roads, construction areas, basically anywhere it was possible to get stuck—was the best way to avoid getting caught in one. She pushed on the gas and weaved between a couple cars to get two cars behind Markovich.
Mike got caught at a light, but no worries. Angie continuously relayed her position to him using her cell phone.
Markovich turned left onto Massachusetts Avenue NW. Angie sped up to the intersection, but quickly decreased her speed and made the turn without burning rubber. She didn’t want to give Markovich any cause to check his rearview mirror. She passed a slow moving Nissan as she crossed over 7th Street onto K Street. Other drivers didn’t care one iota if Angie was on a tail.
Forgive Me Page 14
