But here’s the thing, and I think I just figured it out while I was writing this all down. They didn’t want to know. Not really. They wanted it to be something they might have heard about, or saw on Law and Order: SVU, or caught a snippet of on Dateline or whatever. They didn’t want it be something they could reach over and touch.
I was just too damn real for them.
Thank God Sophia came around! Thank you thank you thank you. xoxo She came over and we got honest with each other. No BS. I told her how everyone made me feel so cheap and unworthy. She apologized and we ate ice cream and well, I felt a whole lot better. Ice cream can fix anything, I swear. We must have talked for five hours straight. I told her what happened, I told everything as I could remember it, and she listened. She REALLY listened. I LOVE HER SO MUCH!! I needed somebody and she came through. I told her about Angie and what I thought about her friend Sarah Winter. Sophia thinks I can do something to help. Make a difference in someone’s life, ya know? I think Angie’s wall of photographs got to me, seeing all those faces, all those lost souls reunited with the people who loved them. But what about Sarah Winter? Her picture’s going to stay on Angie’s wall until she’s found. Ask me, I think it’ll be hanging up there as long as Angie has that office. Sarah’s never coming back. Without Angie’s help I might have ended up just like her—someone who was never found. I need to pay it forward. That’s what I think. It gives me purpose. Focus on something other than how broken I am inside. I have so many dark thoughts and dark days. I need a bit of light. If I can make a real difference in somebody’s life, isn’t it worth doing no matter what the cost? Sophia thinks so and I think I agree, even if it means I have to see Ricardo again.
CHAPTER 43
Raynor Sinclair parked his Acura SUV across the street from Ivan Markovich’s apartment building. His muscles creaked getting out of his car. Too many hours confined, sitting and driving, had turned Raynor into a tin man. He promised himself a long vacation outdoors with his bow and arrow once this job was over.
He crossed the street, mindful to look both ways. He was mindful about everything, which was how he knew nobody was watching him or Markovich. He also knew Markovich was at home. The GPS anklet kept a reliable 24/7 vigil on his prospect.
For this meeting, Raynor went with a black suit, a black shirt underneath, and dark sunglasses. He knew he looked like a badass, but it was a fitting choice for the business he had come to discuss.
He stepped into a cool marble foyer with a fancy inlaid design fronting a mahogany reception area topped by green marble. The man seated behind the desk wore a rumpled suit and a sleepy expression. Raynor asked to be connected to Ivan Markovich in 3B. The receptionist dialed a number and handed Raynor a white landline phone.
“Who is it?” The voice on the other end sounded gruff, annoyed.
“You don’t know me. But we need to talk.”
A pause first, and then, “Are you police? You can talk to my attorney.”
“The police don’t want to help you. I do.”
“Why?”
“If you have to ask, then I guess I should go.”
“No. Wait. Come up.”
Raynor handed the white phone back to the attendant and was soon on his way up to the third floor. Markovich was waiting at the door to let him in. He was dressed in jeans and an oxford shirt, with loafers on his feet and no socks because they didn’t fit over the ankle monitor gracefully. The chains draped around his neck, same as his Rolex watch, were made of gold.
From the doorway, Raynor took a look around. He expected a bit more opulent décor—perhaps a large jade rhino or a crystal chandelier, something worthy of someone who had conceivably made millions peddling people. The place was nice enough, though. The apartment had wood throughout, and the living room visible from the doorway featured modern looking furniture favoring black leather, but the view wasn’t much to behold.
Raynor believed Markovich could afford much more. Good. A man who was careful with his money had money to spend.
Markovich might have been somewhat frugal, but he wasn’t a trusting man. He had opened the door with a Glock pistol in his hand. The G37 Gen4 was big bore technology, a gun suitable for law enforcement, not something a first-time enthusiast would own. The choice of weaponry told Raynor plenty. Markovich was comfortable around guns and his warning look sent a message that he had pulled the trigger on a person before.
Raynor kept his sunglasses on because he wasn’t about to move his hands. He also wasn’t armed and wasn’t worried. “You can search me for a weapon, check me for a wire, if that’s your wish. I assure you I don’t have any such items on me.”
“Yeah? How do I know? Wires these days can be small, easy to hide.” Markovich’s accent was somewhat pronounced, but Raynor knew he could dial it up and down at will. Eventually it would play in Markovich’s favor.
“May I take something out of my pocket?” Raynor asked.
Using his gun as a pointer, Markovich motioned him inside the apartment. He closed the door with his foot and aimed the Glock at Raynor’s chest. “No tricks.”
Raynor reached into his front pants pocket and removed a key with a square shaped head and an unusual tip that would fit the key ring hole on the ankle monitor. “I can take that off,” he said, pointing to the GPS tracker that was part of Markovich’s bail condition.
“Are you a cop?”
“I’m a friend.”
“It comes off, an alarm goes off.”
“No,” Raynor said. “It will continue to broadcast your signal. We could move you across town and the people monitoring you will think you’re still in your apartment.”
“How is that possible?”
“I pay people who control the software. It’s not hard.”
“What is it you want?”
“May we sit? Drink?”
Markovich didn’t think long. “Vodka?”
“I would have been disappointed if you had suggested otherwise.”
Raynor sat on the black leather sofa and took off his sunglasses while Markovich retrieved two chilled glasses from the freezer and brought a bottle of Russian Standard out of a cabinet. Raynor took a sip of the proffered drink, appreciating the slight mineral taste and hints of caraway spice.
Markovich took a seat on the black leather chair across from him. The chair was higher off the ground than the sofa, putting Markovich in a power position. Raynor had selected his seat wisely.
“So what’s this all about?” Markovich asked.
“You’re going to be convicted for your crimes. You’ll do twenty years minimum, but the penalty could be life.” Raynor never danced around the issue with his prospects.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re guilty. Because there’s plenty of evidence to convict you. You were good, but not exactly careful.”
“Are you going to offer to kill the girls for me for some ridiculously high price? Is that it?”
“You’re correct, but only in part. I’m here to offer you a way out that doesn’t involve killing any of the girls, but it does come at a ridiculously high price.” Raynor’s face broke into a smile as he hoisted his glass and downed the vodka in one long, delicious gulp.
CHAPTER 44
At the office of DeRose & Associates, Angie was deep into her research on the life on Antonio Conti. The Web had a decent amount of information about Conti, just enough so she didn’t have to visit the library to further her investigation.
In the world of organized crime, Antonio Conti was a soldier, a low level operator who worked for Philip Pissano, a caporegime, or capo, in Dominick Giordano’s notoriously ruthless crime family. The capo was a leader, head of a group of soldiers, and wielded tremendous clout and power within the organization. Conti would have been nothing but a footnote in mob history had he not been pinched on a racketeering charge related to the extortion of local businesses. His was an ill-conceived money laundering scheme.
Because Conti already had a fe
w priors to his name, he was looking at serious time, which certainly influenced his decision to cut a deal with the Feds. In exchange for his testimony, the DA dropped all charges against him. Branded a rat in mob circles, Conti and his family required constant police protection.
As a soldier, Antonio Conti had peddled influence with tactics of fear and intimidation. As a turncoat underworld informer, he wrought havoc and crippled the leadership of the Giordano crime syndicate. The information he revealed during his sensational trial pulled away the shroud that had blanketed the mob in secrecy. Giordano ran his organization with the sophistication of a Fortune 500 company and leveraged a network of Swiss accounts along with elaborate legal and financial maneuverings to hide their illicit activities.
While working as an informant, Conti wore a wire. He secretly recorded hundreds of hours of conversation, producing damning evidence at the trial of several high-ranking mob members including the head honcho, Dominic Giordano, and Conti’s immediate supervisor, the capo Phillip Pissano. These men were not so different from the portrayals depicted in The Godfather. They valued loyalty and integrity above all else, cherished family, and spoke of honor, while simultaneously dealing quantities of heroin measured in tons.
They were killers who never worked on Mother’s Day and abhorred the use of foul language in front of women. Their family values were in stark contrast to the brutal realities of their profession. The damage Conti’s testimony had done to the crime syndicate was immeasurable. Giordano and Pissano each received life sentences and both died in prison. Other members of the mob received lengthy prison sentences including bosses, underbosses, a consigliere, and various captains and lieutenants—all taken down by the low-level Antonio Conti.
It made sense to Angie why Dot and everyone in the country, as Dot had put it, were aware of the trial. Conti’s home in Williamsburg, where he lived before turning informant, was a media circus, and Conti’s wife, Marie, and their only daughter, Isabella, were frequently filmed and photographed. Archived video footage showed Conti pushing his way through a phalanx of reporters on his way into the courthouse, often with his wife and daughter in tow—a daughter with a deformed right ear. Only a few photos of Isabella Conti were online, but none of them were the same as the one Angie had in her purse.
Where did that photo come from, she wondered.
The picture in the attic had been developed from a negative—had to be, because of the Kodak stamp on the back. Everything Angie had learned since making this discovery fit the narrative she had constructed. The year the photograph was taken and its location matched what she read online. Angie used Google Maps to get a street view of the Williamsburg neighborhood where Conti once lived. Many of buildings were the same ones depicted in the photograph, though the Mayor Koch poster was long gone.
Mike Webb read the Wikipedia page over Angie’s shoulder. “So he’s our man. You think he and your mom had an affair?”
“She would have been in her late twenties, almost thirty back then,” Angie said. “Certainly possible.”
“Married to your dad for how long?”
Angie did some math in her head. “Six or seven years.”
“The old seven year itch,” Mike said, in a sing-song voice.
Angie looked annoyed. “This is my mom we’re talking about. Respect, please.”
Mike held up his hands. “Just trying to find a connection. It would be weirdly fitting given how we profit from that sort of thing, is all.” Mike held up his digital camera as reminder of the sorts of images he’s paid to capture.
“Crossing a line here, Mike. You’re crossing a line.” With her finger, Angie drew an imaginary line on the ground between herself and Mike.
“I’m just saying if our business taught us anything, it’s that infidelity is pretty darn common.” Mike glanced around the office. “Say, where’s Bao? I figured he be here helping you with the research.”
“He’s gone camping with some friends. Won’t be back for a few.”
“Yeah? Speaking of camping, Mr. Tad Hutchinson is doing a little of his own in a lot of seedy motels and never with Mrs. Tad.”
Mike showed Angie the pictures he’d taken on his Nikon D90. Angie wanted to scrub her eyeballs clean, but the evidence would help their client retain custody of her kids once she filed for divorce. Often in child custody and divorce matters, the one who hired a private investigator was the one who won.
“Good work there, Mike.”
“Can’t crack this case, though.” Mike tapped the wiki page for Antonio Conti.
“There’s a connection between Conti and my mom. I just need to find it.”
“What are the options?”
“Lovers, like you suggested,” Angie said.
“What about siblings?” Mike tossed out the idea nonchalantly and watched as Angie’s jaw fell open.
“But my mom’s maiden name was Tyler, not Conti.”
“For all you know,” Mike said. “You have no connection to your extended family. I’m just saying, maybe she and Antonio were related.”
Angie gave it some thought. It would make Isabella a cousin. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my dad.”
“Any luck on the death certificate?”
“Zero,” Angie said, making the same shape with her fingers. “Isabella Conti died March fourth nineteen eighty-eight if you believe what my mom wrote on the back of the picture. I searched all the databases and got nothing.”
“No Isabella Conti?”
“There’s a record of her birth, but not of her death.”
“Maybe your mom was wrong about Isabella dying,” Mike suggested.
“You think the code means something else? Then Isabella might still be alive.”
Mike thought it over. “No. Honestly, I don’t think so. I don’t have a specific reason, just a gut feeling. I think that girl is dead and I think your mom knew it.”
A thought struck Angie and her face lit up. “What if she’s sort of dead.”
“Oh, like a vampire,” Mike said, making a fang-face with his mouth. “I like the possibility.”
“No. Not like that. Like what happens when you inform on the mob”
“You get dead,” Mike said.
“Or you get gone,” Angie said.
It was Mike’s expression that brightened. “You think they went into witness protection?”
“How else would they survive?”
“So March the fourth?”
“Maybe that’s the date they all became somebody else?”
Mike gave a nod of approval. “So what now?”
Angie took out her cell phone. “Now, I call a guy I know who wants to take me out to dinner.”
CHAPTER 45
The car carrying Dante Lerardi hit a pothole and bounced hard enough to send a splash of Jameson and soda onto his pant leg. “Hey!” he shouted from the back seat, holding his drink far away from his body. “Take it easy there, Pedro. This is an Armani here. Now it’s all stained.”
Raynor Sinclair never told Dante his real name, and Dante never asked. The sobriquet amused Raynor, who had a fair complexion and could claim only Irish and English heritage. He cracked a half smile Dante couldn’t see, dug out a handful of napkins from the center console, and retrieved a fresh can of soda water from the small cooler on the passenger seat beside him.
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Lerardi.” He passed the items back to Dante with his gloved hand. “If you dab the pants with the soda, it should take out any stain.”
Dante cracked open the can, dipped the napkin into the opening, and did some dabbing with a scowl on his face. “This suit probably cost more than you make in a month.” He had a hard-edged voice and the clipped speaking style of a hurry-it-up Northerner.
“Again, I apologize.” Raynor kept a neutral voice to go along with his neutral expression. It wasn’t easy to remain calm and composed in Dante’s presence. The man had been antagonistic and boorish for most of the two-hour drive, but Raynor took the hi
gh road and acted like a true professional. He looked like a professional, too, dressed in a designer suit with a white shirt and black tie, the outfit of a chauffeur, someone who should be good at avoiding potholes. But then again, he wasn’t a chauffeur.
Dante grumbled as he dabbed the wet spot, expanding against the brown fabric of his suit pants. “I look like I pissed myself. Be more careful, all right?”
“Yes, of course,” Raynor said.
Dante, occupied with the stain, didn’t notice Raynor glance at him in the rearview mirror, couldn’t see the disdain flare in eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Once he had done enough dabbing, Dante’s gaze shifted to the verdant Virginia farmland rolling past his window. “What the hell am I going to do out here? If you got me picking freakin’ potatoes or something, I’ll shoot you between your goddamn eyes.”
Raynor cracked a half smile Dante couldn’t see. “You won’t have to pick potatoes.”
“Yeah, I better not,” Dante said, spitting out the words. He adjusted the lapels of his suit as if the act somehow bolstered his credibility as a man not to be reckoned with. “Farming is undignified.” He undid a button on his silk shirt, opening the collar to expose several gold chains resting against skin artificially tanned to an unnatural shade.
“Four months ago, I was bagging ten g’s a week, moving so much Big H up and down the east coast I could have made this field look like it was coated in snow. And you know what that kind of dough got me?” He ran a hand through the wisps of his remaining hair and smiled broadly enough to give a flash of his gold tooth. The brightening expression tightened the loose skin flapping beneath his chin like a turkey’s wattle. “It got me a lot of play. Hotties, all fine, nubile young things. And look at me. Fifty-five, not much muscle, a threat to blow away on a windy day. You think they would have done me without the drugs and the cash? I’m talking foursomes, brother, that made my balls fall off.”
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