Forgive Me

by Daniel Palmer

  “Hey, I’m not stripping to my skivvies, Angie,” Mike said. “No way.”

  “Of course not. You go hang out on those streets. You find Fedora or Casper. You ask about any action. Say you’re new to town. Get a conversation going.”

  “They’ll think I’m a cop.”

  “Make them think otherwise.”

  Mike groaned. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “You show them the do-re-mi. Pay extra, but not overkill. Flash a few hundred, that should do it. Make sure you describe a girl just like Nadine. That’s your type. Hopefully she’s there and there’s only one. You’ll get alone with her. Give her my card, sneak her a burner phone and some extra cash. If you’re convincing enough, I’ll get a phone call. Nobody is going to check to see if you got your money’s worth, believe me. You walk out the room with a happy grin on your face, nobody will question it. The girl won’t say anything, and we’ll be one step closer to bringing her home.”

  “What if they take me to another girl? Not Nadine.”

  “Keep the phone and cash. Tell the girl you have a fetish that you don’t like to touch, just look. It’s your thing.”

  “You can’t go to place like that and not touch. It’d be suspicious.”

  “I’m just saying you don’t have to get undressed. Maybe dance with her. Like a little waltz.”

  “You want me do a waltz with a prostitute?”

  “They’re not prostitutes, Mike. They’re victims.”

  Mike looked a bit ashamed of himself. “Yeah. Got it.”

  “I’ll be nearby. If things go south, we’ll get the cops there in a flash.”

  “So I can end up in a standoff like Elise? That doesn’t sound like a good strategy.”

  “Let’s get to her, Mike,” Angie said. “If she’s with those monsters, she needs our help.”

  Mike gave it a few seconds thought. “Okay, okay. I’m in.”

  “Good. We go back tomorrow. Tonight, I need wine from a box and a bad TV movie.”

  “Wine from a box? Might be time to take your sommelier off your Christmas card list.”

  “You know, I just thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “How am I going to explain the bullet hole in my car if my dad sees it and asks?”

  “That’s easy,” Mike said. “Tell him you drove to Baltimore.”

  Angie’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the display and was surprised and more than a little worried to see the call was from Walter Odette. “Walt, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is all right, but—”

  Angie’s stomach clenched, her chest tightened, and her throat closed. Oh God . . . oh no. Please, please, no no . . .

  “Your dad is fine, but he’s had a bit of a scare,” Walt said.

  Angie felt her world collapsing. A sinking sensation came on, her vision going white. “Is my dad all right?” A crack in her voice elicited an anxious look from Mike.

  “Yes, yes, he’s fine,” Walt said. “We thought it might have been a heart attack, but the doctors aren’t sure yet. He’s still in the hospital. Louise and I are with him now. We’re just waiting for more tests to come back.”

  “Can I talk to him?” Angie’s voice quavered again.

  “He’s being looked at right now.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “Yes, it’s not a stroke. It’s nothing like what happened to your mom.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Virginia Hospital Center, where they took your mom.”

  “Tell Dad I’ll be there soon.”

  CHAPTER 28

  It was evening at the DeRose house. A pale light fought its way into the TV room through a bank of windows that overlooked an expansive backyard. The yard looked neglected now that Angie’s mom wasn’t there to tend to the flowerbeds. Weeds had sprung up where there used to be none and the colors, always so eye-popping in spring, were notably absent.

  Angie felt homesick at home, and that was something hard to get her mind around. She felt her mother’s absence in the haphazard way her father stacked dishes in the cupboard (these bowls never went with those bowls); by the type of food he kept in the pantry (Fritos? Really, Dad?); by the laundry he had folded but left in a laundry basket in the bedroom; by the thin coat of dust collected on the pictures. Like a painting defined more by what wasn’t there than what was, Angie heard her mother’s voice in the silence.

  It was Angie’s home, but it was different now, and it would always be different.

  Covered by a blanket and draped in a terrycloth robe, Gabriel DeRose reclined in his favorite chair, switched on the Nationals game, and gave Angie a big smile. He’d spent two nights in the hospital for observation and to run a bunch of tests, and today was his first day home. Already he was feeling like a new man, or so he said.

  Angie didn’t trust her father completely when it came to his health. He might play with the truth to safeguard his routine, that being work and Nationals games, either on the TV or at the stadium (his preference).

  She’d prepared a tray with none of his favorites. She brought him hummus and carrots, cashews (unsalted), sparkling water, caffeine free green tea, and kale chips she had baked herself.

  Gabriel took a bite of a kale chip and made a face a three-year-old who tasted cod liver oil couldn’t match. “Whatever this is, it’s an affront to real chips everywhere. A chip is supposed to taste good.”

  Angie held a second kale chip up to her father’s mouth. “It is good, Dad. It’s just an acquired taste, that’s all. And according to your doctor, you’re going to need to acquire a lot of new tastes.”

  Gabriel looked contrite. “I was so sure I was going to die.”

  “The doctor said a lot of people mistake acid reflux for a heart attack. It’s not that uncommon.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less embarrassing.”

  “Well, you did the right thing calling me so I could get you to the hospital.” Walt’s baritone drew Angie’s attention behind her. He enjoyed an open door policy at the DeRose household and had let himself in through the front door. He gave Angie a big hug and peck on the cheek, and set his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. “How’s our patient today?”

  “Mortified,” Gabriel said.

  Walt picked up a prescription bottle of Nexium Angie had set on the food tray. He read the label. “This is all they gave you?”

  “That and some other . . . changes.”

  Walt’s eyebrow arched. “Changes? Such as?”

  Gabriel looked down as Angie stood akimbo, smiling at her dad.

  “Such as no fatty, fried foods,” Angie said. “Maybe some exercise, Dad. A little less work and little less stress.”

  “Who needs less stress?”

  Madeline Hartsock had open door privileges, as well. She came in and gave Angie, Gabriel, and Walt each a hug. Family was family, even if it wasn’t by blood. “How are you feeling today, Mr. DeRose?”

  “Just fine, thanks. And you are a thirty-three year old woman, my daughter’s best friend, and I should be Gabriel . . . or even Gabe.” Gabriel winked.

  “So I guess cheese lasagna is in the fatty food category,” Walt said, sounding disappointed.

  “Just a little,” Angie answered.

  “Well, it won’t break Louise’s heart. More for us and maybe the Karlsons. Goodness knows they can’t resist her lasagna. But hey, it’s the thought that counts.” Walt patted Gabriel on the shoulder and turned his attention to Angie. “And how are you holding up? Any new leads on your runaway?”

  “I’ve got a guy on it.” Angie wasn’t about to bring up the scare she had down in Baltimore. Better if her father thought her job was only a tick or two less safe than an accountant’s.

  Talk of Nadine reminded her of the photograph of the girl. She showed Walt and her dad the image NCMEC had prepared.

  “So who is this pretty woman?” Walt asked.

  “This is the girl in the photograph I fo
und in the attic,” Angie said. “Aged about thirty years.”

  “I told you about that, Walt,” Gabe said.

  “Oh yeah,” said Walt. “Let me see the original.”

  Angie got her copy and showed it to Walt. Madeline took another look, as well.

  Walt held up the image of the young girl and the age progression version for comparison. “Amazing what you can do with computers these days.”

  Walt and Gabe were products of a different era, when a room full of computers wasn’t nearly as powerful as the phone in Angie’s purse, and a fax machine was something of a novelty. Her father had always worked in finance, a little staid compared to Walt’s distinguished career in law enforcement. When they could speak in private, Angie would tell Walt all about the two thugs she took down and show him the bullet hole in her car. He would get a kick out of the story. It would be the opposite of her dad’s reaction.

  Angie and Walt frequently talked guns, police techniques, and law enforcement trends when they got the chance. He had begun his career with the Washington PD, but found his true calling when he’d joined the U.S. Marshals. He’d been with the Marshals Service for thirty years, accruing plenty of commendations and accolades along the way. He was also a wellspring of stories.

  Angie enjoyed her long chats with Walt on the back deck, drinking beer and talking shop. He spoke of his marshal days with reverence. She wondered if one day she would look back on her time with DeRose and Associates with the same misty-eyed recollection. Having built the agency from the ground up, she held every expectation she would.

  With his marshal days long behind him, Walt enjoyed traveling and spoiling his five grandkids. It wasn’t uncommon for him to take off on lengthy solo adventures, or for him and Louise to be gone months at a time. Sometimes, Angie’s parents had gone with them, but her dad wasn’t big on traveling. Instead, he and Walt went on local fishing trips together or blew off steam at the gun range.

  Her father owned several firearms that he kept in a gun safe in the basement. As a young girl, Angie found the unfinished basement creepy, and never went down there alone. Her parents used it for storage, though her father kept an elliptical machine down there he used on occasion. Hopefully, he would start using the elipical more.

  “So any idea who this girl might be?” Walt asked.

  “No idea at all,” Angie said. “But I’ve got my guy Bao working on it. He’s trying to figure out the code on the back.”

  Walt turned the image of the young girl over and read it for himself. He gave a few head scratches as if to say Bao had his work cut out for him, and handed both pictures back to Angie. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, you let me know.”

  “Will do. I have to get back on the Nadine case soon. I think we’re close. This may have to wait.”

  Gabriel coughed to get attention. “What do you mean by soon? I’m in need of some help here, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Dad, you are not in a nursing home and you’re not even that sick. You just need to take better care of yourself, that’s all.”

  “What about the Nats games? I have tickets for tomorrow night. I wanted to take you.”

  “I’ve got to get back to Baltimore,” Angie said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Madeline said.

  “Hey, you didn’t give me a chance,” Walt said, grinning.

  Gabe took a look at Madeline. “Yeah, maybe next time, Walt.”

  The next several hours, the four sat in the TV room and watched the Nats dismantle the Cubs. Well, Madeline, Gabriel, and Walt watched the game. Angie was busy going over e-mail, answering voice messages, and making sure the agency and her farmed-out cases continued to run smoothly. She touched base with Bao only to learn he had made more progress with his skateboard tricks than her mom’s mysterious code, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  She also got in touch with Mike Webb, who was at a bar a few blocks from Angie’s Alley, as he called it.

  “Any luck getting inside that apartment building?”

  “I haven’t seen Hat Man or Casper the Hefty Ghost since you went all ninja on them,” Mike said.

  “Well, are you looking?”

  “I’m at a bar. Of course I’m looking.”

  “For the men, Mike. Not a hookup.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m looking for them, too. I’m blending here. I’m being seen, so when I make the approach, I’ll be a known entity, not some stranger who could be a cop.”

  “Right. What’s your cover? That’s a pretty crappy part of town to just hang out in.”

  “Restaurant consultant. And it’s not that bad here. There’s a couple good places to eat. A chicken joint and some gyro thing. And I got a nice hotel.”

  “How nice, Mike?”

  “Nice.”

  “Mike.”

  “I’m away from kids, Ange.”

  “Okay, okay. Just make it nice-ish, all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. How’s your pop holding up?”

  “Better, thanks. Call when you got something. And Mike, thanks for being there for me. I owe you.”

  Walt left during the seventh inning stretch, but Madeline made it all the way to the ninth. “We’re still on for next week, right?”

  Angie slapped her own forehead. “Sarah’s mom.”

  “Every year. She looks forward to our visit.”

  “I’ll be there, of course,” Angie said as she gave Madeline a hug. And Sarah won’t, because Sarah’s dead. Sarah’s body has decomposed down to the bones. Angie kept her thoughts private, but Madeline would have agreed.

  When the house was finally quiet, her father snoring softly in his chair, the e-mail queue down to something respectable, the phone calls answered, the work fires all put out, Angie got into her pajamas and read a magazine in her old bedroom, but not on her old bed. The home had been renested after Angie left for college, the furniture changed long ago, and all echoes of her childhood subsequently silenced. All echoes except for the one made by a little girl Angie didn’t know, who had some connection to her and to her mother.

  All this got Angie thinking about the attic where she’d found the picture in the jewelry box. She would let her father sleep in that chair a little longer, so she could return to the attic uninterrupted.

  She began rummaging through boxes, plastic containers, and sundry bags, mostly filled with clothes. There was nothing of real interest, nothing until she found a container with her mother’s old check registers inside. There were boxes full of registers going back years—decades, actually. Not that this surprised Angie, who knew of her mother’s penchant for keeping papers because she was too busy to shred them, and never threw anything in the trash that could be used by identity thieves, even bank registers from accounts closed long ago.

  It was fun and a little sad to review a lifetime of purchases. She found plenty of pedestrian entries—food, clothing, utility bills—but the more personal ones were what Angie found most touching, including all the lessons (dance, swim, horseback riding, tennis, soccer, art camps); all the home repairs; all the charitable giving, including one check for fifteen hundred dollars labeled a loan made out to Susie Banks, a close friend of Kathleen’s. Aunt Susie, to Angie. All the women close to her mother were aunts to Angie, except for her real aunts who Angie didn’t know.

  As Angie looked at her mother’s handwriting, she thought of the words on the back of the photograph. Forgive me. “Forgive you for what, Mom?” she said aloud.

  As she flipped through the check registers, years passing in seconds, a blur of purchases speeding before her eyes, one entry caught her eye. It was a two hundred dollar sum paid to MCEDC and recorded as “Microtia Gift.” The gift had been made five years ago, recorded as paid on March the fourth.

  Microtia was the little girl’s ear deformity. Angie had looked up the condition online, but learned nothing revealing or helpful in her search for the girl’s identity. Using her phone, Angie typed MCEDC into Google and found the Microtia-Congenital Ear Defo
rmity Center in Burbank, California. From what she could tell, it looked to be the world’s most prominent institute for research and surgical repair of microtia and a related condition called atresia.

  Angie combed the check registers again with a different focus. The more recent check registers should be downstairs in her mother’s desk, but in these older registers she soon came upon another entry for a payment to MCEDC, that one also made on the fourth of March, also for two hundred dollars. She kept looking, register after register—thirty or so registers in total, stored in a dozen check boxes. Angie found the same entry made year after year. The checks were always written on the fourth of March and always for two hundred dollars, which told Angie it was significant, though she had no idea why.

  The last entry Angie found dated back to 1984. It might have been the first entry recorded. She didn’t know if other, older registers were anywhere else in the house.

  Downstairs, she rifled through her mother’s desk and found her more recent checkbook registers. She flipped through pages, but did not have to go back very far. A little over a month before her death, Kathleen DeRose wrote a two hundred dollar check to the MCEDC on March the fourth.

  Angie sat in her mother’s office chair, spun it a few times, thinking what it could mean, knowing she would end up calling Bao.

  Angie’s phone rang. She was sure it was Bao calling her. “Were your ears ringing?”

  It wasn’t Bao. It was Mike. “Ange, I got a joke for you. Three pimps walk into a bar.”

  Angie gasped. “They’re there?”

  “Mr. Fedora, Casper the Friendly Killer, and some tall, thin, good-looking guy I hate on account of those very attributes. A couple girls are with them and they don’t look like they subscribe to Good Housekeeping, if you get my drift. I’m going to strike up a little conversation. See what happens.”

  “You be careful as can be.”

  “Hey, I’m Captain Careful, the world’s dullest superhero.”

  “Listen, if you can’t get inside, see if one of the girls can get Nadine the burner phone and my business card. The message is we want to help. Don’t play the hero, Mike. Got it?”

  Mike hummed a few bars from Superman’s theme song in response.