Raynor said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Dante leaned back in his seat, confused for a moment, before eventually figuring it out. “It’s a figure of speech, you jackass. My balls didn’t literally fall off. I’m just saying, I’m used to a certain lifestyle and this crap-ass backwoods place you’re taking me to doesn’t quite meet my standards.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Lerardi, where you’re going, you won’t miss one thing from your old life.”
Dante picked something out from between his teeth using a manicured fingernail. “Yeah, I better not with what I’m giving you guys. My contribution shut down most of the Big H supply coming into the ports.”
“It was very helpful information,” Raynor said. “I’m not going to deny you that.”
“I’m just saying, I expect to be well compensated for my sacrifice.”
“Oh, you will be.”
“By well compensated I mean, I like redheads,” Dante said. “No BS, either. I want the carpet to match the drapes, if you know what I’m saying.”
In a humorless voice Raynor replied, “You’re a man of very refined taste.”
“Whatever,” Dante said, his gaze shifting back to the window and the world zooming along outside.
“So who am I going to be anyway? I want something badass, something that says I’m nobody’s jerkoff.” Whatever was lodged between Dante’s teeth needed a bit more picking to get out. “What about Clint?” he suggested. “That’s a badass name. Like Eastwood, but you know, something different obviously, because that’d attract a lot of attention.”
“If your new name was Clint Eastwood? Yes, I think it would.”
“Right. But like Clint Eastwood. Maybe Downing. Or is there a Robert Downing? You know, Iron Man.”
“That’s Downey, I believe.”
“Iron Man is Robert Downey?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so good. What about Clint Downing?”
Raynor glanced back at his passenger. “I believe your new name is Albert Tuttle.”
“Albert Tuttle?” Dante couldn’t believe his misfortune. “That guy sounds like an asshole.”
Thirty minutes later, the conversation hadn’t much improved. Raynor was glad they were nearing their destination, or he might have done something impulsive. He turned the Cadillac onto a dirt road devoid of any structures and drove exactly three point six miles before he came to a stop in front a field of sweet corn, stretching for miles along both sides of the road. The corn would be harvested late June through mid-September. By the looks of it, this field would be ready on the early side. The green stalks were already waist high.
He cut the engine. “Wait here.”
Dante took one look out the window and scoffed. “Like I’d go anywhere,” he said, examining his fingernails. “Just hurry it up, will ya? All this country scenery makes me itchy.”
Raynor returned a polite smile, then a nod before he climbed out of the car to unfold his tall frame, giving his muscles a needed stretch. Sunglasses shielded his eyes from the bright sunshine that slipped out from behind a puffy cloud. After he checked to see no cars were coming (though a tractor was more expected), he vanished into the corn like a scene out of Field of Dreams, his father’s favorite movie. Every year, on the anniversary of his father’s death, he watched the Kevin Costner film to honor the person he loved and hated the most.
Minutes later, the corn parted as though some massive animal were on the march, when in actuality it was Raynor driving a black four-door Chevy Silverado with off-road suspension and brand new all-terrain tires. He brought the truck to a stop in front of the Cadillac, climbed down from the cab, and opened Dante’s passenger door like a good chauffeur should.
Without hesitating, Dante climbed out the back of the car and blinked away the bright sunshine before setting a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses on his face. “So that’s how you do it, huh? Keep me moving. Change it up. Impressive.”
“Yes, it is,” Raynor said, standing by the open door of the truck’s crew cab.
Dante got settled in the back while Raynor took his seat up front behind the wheel.
“So where to now, Pedro?” Dante asked.
Raynor swiveled around to present Dante with a grim smile and aimed his 92 FS Berretta at Dante’s head.
Only then did it register that the back of the cab was draped completely in plastic. The clear tarp covered the seats and the wall behind Dante’s head.
“Now you don’t worry about potato picking or your supply of redheads.” Raynor pulled the trigger and a gruesome splatter coated the plastic sheet in red.
Dante’s chin fell, his chest and his body tilted slightly right, but he didn’t keel over completely.
Raynor replaced his leather gloves with plastic ones so he wouldn’t get the mess on his hands and took the Tom Ford glasses before he wrapped up Dante like a gory burrito. He effortlessly tossed the wrapped body into the truck’s cab, covering him in a blue tarp. The body would be buried in the deep woods, in a place where Raynor enjoyed hunting, never to be found again.
It was a job well done, Raynor thought as he drove away, leaving the stolen Caddy to be found by the farmer who tended those fields.
CHAPTER 46
Angie had been to Killer E.S.P., a funky coffee shop in Old Town Alexandria where she was to meet Bryce. She liked the casual ambience and what the ESP stood for—espresso, sorbet, and pie. Their pies were dangerously delicious, and her stress level since making the Conti connection had summoned a craving for sugar she found impossible to resist.
It wasn’t a date, not in the way it could have been when she’d accepted his invitation for a Saturday night dinner. They had business to discuss—Angie’s business, to be exact.
She had spent a lot longer getting dressed for this coffee encounter than was her norm, which contradicted her belief that it wasn’t an actual date.
Bryce had taken two days to call her back with news on Antonio Conti and his family. During those intervening days, she thought about Bryce quite a lot, and not just because of the research he was doing on her behalf. She wanted to see him, to impress him even, but not be overt about it.
When deciding what to wear, she’d avoided the tank tops that pushed everything up. After several outfit changes, she went with a rare number hidden in the back of her closet—a navy blue jersey dress that hugged her curves in a flattering way. She wore her hair down so her dark locks swayed enticingly across her shoulders, and she kept the makeup to a minimum. She noticed more than a few strangers noticing her as she walked to the coffee shop.
Dressed casually in faded jeans and a plaid sport shirt, the kind Mike Webb might have owned, but couldn’t wear with the same panache, Bryce stood to greet Angie.
An awkward moment ensued when she stuck out her hand to shake hello and Bryce moved in for a quick hug. “We did a mission together,” he said, wrapping his arms around her before she had time to pull away. “We’re kind of past the handshake stage.”
It happened so quickly Angie barely had time to hug him back.
They went to the counter where Angie ordered green tea and a slice of peach pie.
Bryce got the same, explaining, “I had coffee the last time I was with you.”
Angie looked surprised, and found it interesting he remembered such a minor detail. “Yeah, it’s good to change it up.” She didn’t know what else to say.
They took everything back to the table along with an assortment of napkins, forks, and knives.
“So how’s Nadine?” Bryce was sweet to ask, though Angie wanted to dive right in to the meat of their meeting.
She tempered her desire. “Good, I think. We met at my office once, but I haven’t really spoken to her since. I think she’s adjusting. I think about her all the time, to be honest. What about the girls?”
“I don’t really know,” Bryce admitted. “I can barely keep track of all the numbskulls we have to track down. But I like I said, I think they’ll all be treated fairl
y.”
Angie took a bite of her pie and savored the taste.
Bryce did the same. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about this place.”
“Worth the hour drive?”
“Hour and twenty with traffic,” he corrected while chewing. “And yes, well worth it. Tell me about your dad. Is he feeling better?”
The question made Angie light up inside. “Yes, and thanks for asking,” she said. “Though I’ve had a hard time not telling him about Antonio Conti.”
“That’s understandable. I think it was the right call to wait and see what I could dig up before you dropped that bombshell on him.”
Angie’s nerves rattled. She sensed the moment was at hand. What had Bryce learned? Why did he feel so compelled to share the news in person? She was good at waiting for something to happen while on stakeout, but this type of anticipation felt foreign to her.
“God, I hope my mom didn’t have an affair. Did she have an affair? Oh crap, I don’t think I want to know.” Angie paused a beat. “I want to know. Did she?”
“I don’t know,” Bryce said, “and I’m not trying to be cagey or cute here. I really have no clue.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, my job is fugitive apprehension. I’m not a witness protection specialist. Those files are safeguarded really closely, and it’s not an all-access type of thing.”
Angie deflated. She’d held such high hopes for this encounter.
“But I have some friends who owe me some favors,” Bryce continued, “and they agreed to look for me. My contact volunteered to give them a message from you. Obviously, he couldn’t give you Conti’s new four-one-one, because their new identities are a secret.”
Angie set down her fork and locked her gaze on Bryce. Her heart bubbled in her throat as her skin heated up. A thin coat of sweat crept along the back of her neck. “And? Is Isabella alive?”
Bryce let go a heavy sigh. “I don’t know.”
Angie’s temples were pounding. She took out the picture of Isabella and put it on the table in front of him. She flipped the picture over so that he could see the code on the back. “We think this code means the date Isabella was born and the date she died, March fourth, nineteen eighty-eight.”
“I can’t tell you if she’s alive or dead.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
“Are they in witness protection or not?”
“Sort of are,” Bryce said.
“Sort of?” Angie’s thoughts jumbled, trying to guess how someone could sort of be in witness protection. Nothing made sense. If they had her in the program, then they should know her status, and the status of her parents.
“Conti and his family are in the system,” Bryce said. “They exist. There’s a record of their approval from the Chief of Witness Security and the Special Operations Unit of the OEO.”
“OEO? What’s that?”
“Office of Enforcement Operations at the Department of Justice. They handle the approvals. We, meaning the U.S. Marshals, can’t just put people into the program. That’s for the higher-ups to handle.”
“So Conti and his family went in?”
“Yes. Once they’re in, they’re in. Then it’s the job of a U.S. marshal inspector to set up the new identity, handle communications, monitor telephone calls and such. The OEO is pretty much out of it at that point.”
“Once you’re approved, the government oversight is a lot less, is that what you’re saying?” The picture Angie had formed in her mind was still rather fuzzy.
“Yeah, in part. Witnesses in the protection program go through rigorous psychological testing. It’s a hard life, and not everyone is suited to the task. All this is predicated on a U.S. attorney sponsoring the request, and that only happens if the witness’s testimony is deemed to be of real value.
“If it is, the witness is subjected to a battery of polygraphs, medical exams, and such. Applications are submitted and if approved the USMS takes over. We provide reasonable help getting the witness a job, finding them suitable housing, providing all the identity documents for family members, that sort of thing. The area of relocation is known only to the USMS. Even the case attorney doesn’t know where they go.”
“So who protects them? You?”
“Honestly, witness protection is a bit of misnomer. We don’t provide around-the-clock protection services. It’s more like witnesses are moved to a safer location and given new identities to help them live new lives. Their identities are government manufactured and as authentic as can be—new name, driver’s license, and social security number. It’s highly effective, but also isolating. The attorneys make it as clear as possible what a witness and the family should expect after going into the program. From what I understand, they do a good job painting a pretty bleak picture.”
“Bleak in what way?”
“When you enter the program, you have to cut off all contact with your parents, your aunts, uncles, cousins, your friends, forever.” Bryce paused, letting the implications set in. “Everything you know about your old life is gone and gone for good in an instant. Going back to your old life can get you killed. Usually our close monitoring of the witness ends around three months after he goes in. Then the witness is pretty much on his own.”
“It sounds like a miserable life,” Angie said.
“Let’s just say it’s not easy getting witnesses to sign up. They have to give up an awful lot.”
“Yeah, like everything.” Angie took another bite of pie, needing to taste something sweet. “So the Conti family, what happened to them?”
“That’s the thing and the reason I wanted to see you in person,” Bryce said. “According to my contact, there is no record of who the Contis became.”
Angie set her fork down and her face scrunched up to show her confusion. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”
“It means Antonio Conti testified against Giordano and his people and was taken into witness protection. But whoever he became—well, he and his family—they don’t exist in our system. My contact couldn’t explain it.”
“I don’t follow.”
Bryce gave a solemn shake of his head. “Angie, it’s the craziest thing and I’m not surprised you’re confused. I’m confused, too. Best I can explain, it’s as if the entire Conti family simply disappeared, like they vanished from the face of the earth.”
Angie was reeling. “What date?”
“Date?”
“When the paperwork was filed for the Contis to get into the program. When was it finalized, do you know?”
Bryce took out his phone. “I took some screen shots of the application. Let me see what’s on there.” He spent a minute or so going through his various pictures. “Here it is.” His eyes were hard to read.
Then he took the picture of Isabella Conti that Angie had set on the table and turned it around so that the code on the back and the words May God Forgive Me faced her.
“Well?” The suspense was eating her alive.
Bryce said, “According these records the Conti family entered witness protection on March fourth, nineteen eighty-eight.”
CHAPTER 47
Sophia drove me to the Baltimore Central Booking and Intake Center. Horrible building. It looked like a castle from somebody’s nightmare. I couldn’t imagine being in there for an hour, let alone years. The beige cement walls were smooth except for the barbed wire running underneath the windows. We went on Sunday because that was when they had visiting hours. I think Casper and Buggy were being held there as well. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t go to see them, only Ricardo. But the best laid plans, right? I was ready to face him. Ready to ask the question I went there to ask. I got myself looking pulled together. I went double denim with stonewashed skinnies and a bright blue denim top, tight T-shirt underneath. I looked cute, but not too cute. I wanted to look good not because I wanted Ricardo to miss me. I wanted to be something he saw every time he dreamt of freedom.
I was thinking about getting a fake ID. But I didn’t know how and Sophia couldn’t help me there. Well, she could help, but in other ways. She brought some vodka from home and that calmed me down after the BCB debacle. We were sitting on the hood of Sophia’s car taking sips of Gatorade that wasn’t just Gatorade and talking about what to do next. This was a mission now. I was going to get some kind of result. I had a purpose, finally, and that’s what I needed most—a purpose. We talked it over and Sophia came up with the idea, so I’m not taking the credit. I might not be able to get in to see Ricardo, but Tasha can.
Dear Diary . . . ha-ha! Dear Diary. Isn’t that what your supposed to write in these things? Deeeeaaar Diary. Hi there. I’m so screwed up. LOL! Actually it’s not a joke. I’m really messed in the head. I want to cover all the mirrors in my house because I get sick just looking at my reflection. Honestly, I think of ending it some days, slipping away into a place where I don’t have to be myself anymore. How would I do it? I’m back to thinking about that again. Lots of options, but I’m not going to do any bridge jumping (sorry Madison). I think I’ll go with pills. Pills work for me. But I don’t have any, so today I tried cutting myself. Just a test, just to see how it felt, and you know something, strangely enough it kinda worked. Obviously I didn’t kill myself, but the pain was sooooo super intense it took the focus off, well, my pain. When I cut, I didn’t feel anxious anymore. I felt alive, I guess. I felt like me again. For the first time in a long time the pain wasn’t something I was creating in my head. It was a living, pulsating thing right there on my arm. It had a shape and texture. The blood followed the path of my knife and it felt so good to finally be in control of something. I got to determine how much pain I felt, how much I bled. Nobody else but me. Guess I’m a cutter. Looks like I’ll be wearing a lot of long sleeve shirts from now on.
Forgive Me Page 27
