Pumped! I got a text from Tasha today. Wasn’t hard to find her. I just had to tell my therapist that I thought it would help me if I could speak with her. I had to confront my past yadayadayada. Guess what happened? Tasha texted me about three seconds after I texted her. Actually, it wasn’t total BS what I said to my shrink. I did feel better hearing from her. She was a good part of a bad experience. If I never spoke to Tasha again, I’d be left with only the bad parts.
So Tasha and I met up. Sophia (she’s got her license) drove us to the Gallery at Harbor Place in Baltimore. Back to Baltimore, my old stomping grounds. Sophia had to skip school, but I didn’t. I dropped out and I’ll probably have to repeat 10th grade or maybe I’ll just get my GED. It’s hard to imagine I can ever go back to my school again. What happened to me isn’t going to be forgotten by everyone over the summer.
The plan was to meet at Starbucks. I got there first and I was crazy nervous waiting for Tasha to show up. Sophia got us each a Caramel Macchiato, which is like four billion calories but it’s sooooo unbelievably delicious. We chatted about things. About how bitchy Hannah, Madison, and Brianna were being. About how my dad has been sort of cool to me lately. Cool as in nice, as in acting somewhat interested in me. I slept over at his place the other day and he tucked me in, kissed my forehead like I was a kid again, and he even told me that he loved me. He said he was sorry for everything I’d been through and I believed him. Even my mom is trying to turn things around. She’s going to AA now. If she saw my arms she’d send me to CA for sure (that’s cutters anonymous, and no Sophia hasn’t seen the scars because I keep wearing long sleeve shirts). When Tasha showed up, Sophia didn’t know what to do or say. I could tell she was really nervous. Tasha wasn’t a girl like us. She was a woman. She smoked and did drugs and got paid for sex. Instead of being embarrassed or mad, I just laughed and grabbed Sophia’s arm because I knew what she was thinking. We’re besties after all. I told her not to be nervous around Tasha.
I told her I did everything she did.
The good part now. Tasha and I reconnected and it was like so cathartic. We made it only a few minutes in Starbucks before I started to cry so we decided to take a walk. Sophia hung back ’cause she’s cool like that. She understood we needed time alone. Tasha and I walked arm-in-arm along the harbor. It was a beautiful day, lots of sunshine, boats on the water, and a bunch of seagulls dive bombing unsuspecting tourists for their food. There was so much to do down there, but all I wanted to do was walk and talk with Tasha. She told me she was living at some kind of safe house for people like us, victims of human trafficking. Well, more for people like Tasha because I had a safe house I ran away from. Well, a sorta safe house. Safer now that mom is cutting back on the booze. But Tasha has nothing. No family. No real friends. No work experience. No way to make it. They can give her all the support in the world, but what is she really going to do with her life? She doesn’t even have a high school degree. She can get her GED, or so she says. The other girls don’t have it any easier. When we were back at the apartment, the food was always pretty decent, but now Tasha gets most of what she eats from a food pantry, and her clothes come from Goodwill (though she looked amazing in her jeans, heels, and this cute yellow top. That from Goodwill? 4Real? I know where I’ll be shopping!) Tasha told me she’ll probably work at a club for a while. Yeah, that kind of club. Her plan is to save enough money so she can go to hairstyling school. Whatever it takes, I told her. But I did say I’d rather see her cutting hair than twirling on a pole at some skanky strip club.
Tasha held up a baggie of blue pills she brought just for me. I lifted up my sleeve and showed her my mangled arm. She made a face like it was gross to look at, and put the pills back in her purse. She got it though. I had my own way of numbing the pain now.
Eventually we got down to business. I told Tasha what I was trying to do. She thought about it and on the spot came up with something I hadn’t ever considered. Something truly brilliant! It was so good it made me realize my idea of going to see Ricardo wasn’t ever going to work. I guess sometimes if you look at things from a different angle what seems like big a disappointment (e.g. not getting into the prison) is really a blessing in disguise (e.g. Tasha’s idea). Of course this whole different angle thing doesn’t apply to what Stinger Markovich did to me. There’s really no silver lining there. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d say I wish I never met Tasha. Harsh, but it’s the truth. She’s an awesome girl, don’t get me wrong, but I still wish I didn’t have to know her. I wish I didn’t have to know any of them, including Jade, the poor girl with an eating disorder who was with us one day and gone the next.
I wish I didn’t have to know Jade at all.
But now my only wish is to find her.
CHAPTER 48
On his way back to Baltimore, Bryce made a planned stop. The guy’s name was Ray Anderson and he had retired from the U.S. Marshals when Bryce was still collecting Pokémon cards. Bryce and Ray had never met, but Ray’s name was all over the Conti paperwork, so he figured the old-timer might be able to shed some light on the situation. Bryce wanted to do something to help out Angie, though his motives were not a hundred percent altruistic.
He was smitten, no two ways about it. Angie was the package—able, beautiful, and confident, the ABCs to Bryce’s heart—but it was more than just pheromones working overtime. He felt they had a lot in common, the important things. They were cut from the same cloth. The job was a calling, a passion for each. You had to be like Angie to truly understand a woman like her, and Bryce got it. He lived it, embodied it. They were members of the same tribe, like with like.
But anything having to do with Angie would have to play out sometime down the road. It wasn’t the time for the Bryce Taggart’s Woo Machine to go fully operational. The Conti matter had to be resolved first. Angie needed closure, and Bryce was lucky enough to be in a position to help. Even better, he could do it without violating any laws. Well, without egregiously violating them. He was certainly skirting close to the ethical edge. Ray Anderson didn’t need to know about Angie DeRose, he just needed to answer some questions from his past.
Bryce had never been to Russett, Maryland before, never had a reason to go there. Bordered by Little Patuxent River and Oxbow Lake, it was a throwback to a simpler time with modest homes, leafy streets, and neighbors known by name. Compared to Bethesda, where Bryce grew up, Russett was a speck of land with a third of the population. Ray was one of 13,000 residents, and owned a nice colonial home with blue vinyl siding and black shutters. He kept his lawn trimmed, and a small garden out front well tended.
Bryce had called beforehand, so Ray was at home and expecting him.
Ray looked a little like Bryce’s dad—soft in the middle, hard in the face, with a lot of experience tucked inside the folds of his many wrinkles. He had kind blue eyes, a head of silver hair, and was dressed like Bryce in a plaid shirt and jeans. For a man in his late seventies, Ray looked robust and healthy.
Inside the house, the furniture was nice—traditional style and mostly what one would expect for a guy living off his government pension. The walls were papered with pictures of children and grandchildren.
They shook hello. Ray’s hands were rough and calloused, and one finger was bandaged.
“I teach shop at the local voc-tech school,” Ray explained, holding up the bandaged finger for Bryce’s benefit. “Made for a good second career. But in my old age, the hammer moves faster than the reflexes.”
Bryce laughed, and then he complimented Ray for having a nice place. It was how guys talked, nice place instead of a lovely home.
Ray took the compliment, said he was blessed, and then gave full credit to his wife. “You know how crazy the Marshals’ life can be. Sally was the glue that kept it all together.”
Eventually they settled on the screen porch overlooking a lush backyard and drank sweet tea from tall glasses filled with ice. Sally was out for the afternoon so he and Bryce had plenty of time to chat, to reminis
ce. Ray sounded pleased about it and Bryce took it as a signal not to jump right into the purpose of his visit.
He gave Ray time to jawbone about his second greatest love after his family—the U.S. Marshals Service. They didn’t have a lot of connections in common, their careers had happened in different eras, but Ray’s stories gave Bryce the sense that Ray had enjoyed a distinguished career, one that concluded with a stint on the witness protection team.
That gave Bryce the opening he sought. “I have a case I want to know if you remember.”
“Ah, is this what you wouldn’t discuss with me over the phone?”
“I believe important things are best discussed in person.”
“And I believe when you’re as old as I am, everything is important. So shoot. I’ll help however I can.”
Bryce gave a brief overview of Antonio Conti and his young family who went into witness protection when Ray was forty-six, already had twenty years in the service, and would be out entirely ten years later. The name Conti didn’t jump right out at him. He stared off into space a moment while collecting fragments from his past.
Using his phone, Bryce scanned his photos and showed Ray a picture of Isabella Conti. It was the one Angie had sent to him.
Ray pointed to the girl’s ear as though that had triggered a memory. “Oh yeah, Conti. Mob rat. I remember now. Guess it didn’t stick because I wasn’t on the case for long.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the day they were slated to go into the program I was taken off the assignment. It was kind of strange, actually.”
“Strange how?” Bryce was leaning forward, hands on his knees, listening intently.
“Usually we were on a case for three or four months, at least until the witness transitioned fully into a new life. We would do check-ins, schedule phone calls, have onsite visits, that sort of thing. Conti was the first and only time I got pulled from a detail like that without any real explanation. I have no idea what happened to that family.”
Ray’s story sounded familiar. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the Contis. Before Bryce could ask another question, his phone rang. He saw it was a call from his fellow U.S. Marshal, Gary Graves.
“Bryce, you sitting down?”
“Yeah.”
“Our boy Ivan Markovich has disappeared. He was supposed to check in with his parole officer, but no word. Went to the house and found his GPS monitor on the kitchen table and no Stinger Markovich to be found. Your ass is wanted in Washington ASAP. We’re on the task force, brother. We got his boys, now we get to go and get the big man himself.”
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
When 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 sa
id. 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.
Forgive Me Page 28
