Forgive Me (38 page)

Mike scratched his head. “Angie, if your mom’s application doesn’t exist in the system, where the heck did her social security number come from?”

He was asking the right question and Angie feared her father knew the answer.

CHAPTER 50

I
t was Friday night when Angie entered her father’s house. She went in through the kitchen and pulled the door closed with a loud bang. The television blared from the living room, but she chose to remain rooted in the kitchen, hands clenched into fists at her sides. She took in a shaky breath that failed to calm her down. Her heartbeat continued to accelerate as her body heated up.

“Dad, I need to see you in the kitchen! Right now!” The imperative summoned her father with haste. The tenor of her voice suggested trouble. She hadn’t called ahead, didn’t want her father to have time to prepare an answer to the question she’d come to ask. And the answer, “I don’t know,” was no longer acceptable. He knew something, all right. Angie was certain of it.

Gabriel burst into the kitchen, his slippers losing traction on the tile floor. The short sprint had left him breathless and evidently without time to tie his terrycloth robe. He was dressed for bed in the usual attire, white T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms.

Angie observed the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He had the look of someone roused roughly from a deep sleep, which at that hour was probably the case.

Gabriel fished out his glasses from a pocket on his robe and asked, “Angie, honey, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

To get herself grounded, Angie took a seat at the kitchen table in same spot where weeks ago she had shown her father the picture of a sweet little girl with a sad smile. She motioned for her father to take the seat across from her, which he did without hesitation.

To quiet the tremor of her hands, Angie kept them folded in her lap. She fell silent while her father waited patiently for her to speak.

During the lull, her ears picked up on the
tick-tock
of the wall-mounted kitchen clock—a Felix the Cat model with those traveling eyes she found more creepy than cute.

Gabriel decided the silence had lasted long enough. “What is this about, Angie? Is everything all right?”

She answered her father’s question by shaking her head. It took a moment before she could speak. “No, Dad, I don’t think it is.” A line of tears filled her lower lids and blurred her vision. She tilted her head back to hold them in place. It wasn’t the time to let them go.

“No more lies, Dad,” Angie said. “Who is Mom’s family?”

Gabriel lowered his gaze to his lap and then slowly raised his head to reveal a contrite expression. “Why do you want to know?” His voice lacked inflection.

“Because I want to know why my mom has a social security number that seemingly materialized out of thin air.“

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed to slits as the creases of his brow deepened. “I don’t understand. What are you getting at here?” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and rubbed clean the lenses of his dark rimmed glasses using the cloth tie of his bathrobe.

Angie viewed both gestures as nervous tics, a subconscious reflex of a mind focused heavily on concocting an acceptable story.

“I ran Mom’s social security number through an online form to get a copy of her application. I wanted to find her parents so I could ask them about Isabella Conti, but Mom has no social security application, even though she has a valid number. I don’t know your family or hers, and I want to know why.”

“You know the story.”

Angie slammed her hand against the kitchen table, creating a clap loud enough to make her father flinch. “I know
your
story!” she bellowed, pointing at him with an accusatory finger. “Now I want the truth. Mom has a connection to a mobster and a phantom social security number. Who has that, Dad? Who? The people who need to disappear, that’s who! Now, tell me the truth. I won’t stop until I get it. You know me. You know how I can be.”

Gabriel took in a few ragged breaths. He knew, all right. “Angie . . . I’m having a . . . a hard time breathing here.”

All of the anger, Angie’s inner turmoil, quieted in a blink, and her focus shifted away from questions about her mother to the health of her father. She leapt out of her chair and leaned over him, feeling his forehead with her hand. His skin felt clammy to the touch. She tuned into the fast flutter of his heart.

“Daddy, are you all right? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you. Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, no, I’m fine,” he said, though he was still a bit breathless. “You just caught me by surprise, is all.”

Angie retook her seat, but with a different attitude, no longer on the offensive. She reached across the table and took hold of her father’s hands, then looked him in the eyes. “Daddy, listen to me. I love you. I don’t want to upset you, but I have to know the truth. And I’m going to get the answer with your help or without it. My investigation won’t be subtle. I’m going to turn over every last stone and I might attract the attention of the same people Mom was trying to hide from. I think that’s what’s going on here. I think Mom knew the Conti family. She was connected to them somehow and she went into hiding just like they did.

“Maybe the people Mom ran away from would come looking for you and me, if they knew where to look. I don’t know. But I do know some grudges last longer than generations. Some members of the Giordano family, I bet, would love to find Antonio Conti, same as I think someone would like to find Mom and her family. I don’t know who, but I won’t stop looking until I get the answer. I know the relationship you had with Mom, and I know she wouldn’t keep that kind of secret from you. I know it in my heart. I’ll dig into your past the same as I dug into Mom’s until I find someone who knows something.

“Now, you can make it safer for us both by telling me what I want to know. Don’t make me go looking. Just tell me and I’ll stop.”

Gabriel’s mouth slipped into a grimace. He rested his head in his hands, and his gaze turned distant. “Angie, please.”

Angie shook her head. “You know me. You know how I can be. Who is my mother? Who is she really?”

Gabriel swallowed a breath. He looked to the ceiling, then back at Angie. “You promise you’ll stop asking questions?”

“Yes, Dad,” Angie said.

“It’s not safe if you don’t.”

“I promise, Dad.”

“What I’m going to say will shock you.”

“Just tell me.”

“Angie, sweetheart, what I’m going to tell you—well, it changes everything.”

“I’m prepared for anything, Dad. Honest, I am.”

“No,” Gabriel said, with a slight shake of his head. “I can assure you, you’re not prepared for this.”

CHAPTER 51

I
t wasn’t the kind of manhunt to which Bryce Taggart was accustomed. Instead of donning body armor and making sure Little Pig was oiled and ready for action, he manned the phones, tracked tips, and fed information to his fellow marshals working as part of the Capital Area Regional Fugitive Task Force, CARFTF for short. Teams from the SOG—Special Operations Group—were on hand and on the front lines doing the kind of fieldwork Bryce hoped to be doing when the Baltimore office volunteered him and Gary Graves for the Ivan Markovich task force.

Bryce and Graves were working out of the DC office, which was a lot nicer than his digs in Baltimore. Newer cubes, better lighting, but it still looked like an office anywhere, except that a lot of the employees carried guns. The room they shared was a cramped space with poor lighting, two phones, two laptop computers and not much else. Soon they would be moved to the official war room—a state-of-the-art command center with satellite feeds, banks of high-tech monitors, computers, the works. But until the IT wonks got them established, they had to make do with the accommodations.

Bryce didn’t think he’d be on desk duty for long. Markovich had vanished without a trace and as the hours slipped away, more marshals would be called in to assist with fugitive apprehension. The media wasn’t helping to spread the word. A story about a guy jumping bail didn’t carry the same weight as a prison break, so coverage had been spotty at best. Still, the tips were coming in, and Bryce was busy entering them into the tracking system while trying to figure out which ones merited a closer look.

“I’m going to get some more coffee,” Graves announced, sounding a little apathetic. He wanted to be in the field, as well, but was dressed for office duty in a blue polo fronted by the U.S. Marshals insignia, black belt, and dark pants. Bryce had on the same outfit.

“If they have any more of those peanut packets bring me one, will you?”

Bryce’s desk phone rang. It was another tip on Markovich, somebody in Alaska swearing the alleged trafficker was on his charter fishing trip. That one would go to the bottom of the pile. But at least the tips were coming.

Graves returned with two coffees, but no peanuts. “They’re out.”

Bryce looked disappointed, an expression that changed to curiosity when a U.S. marshal Bryce didn’t recognize poked his head into their small office.

“Cormack Donovan,” the man said. He was a tall and thin fellow with brown hair, a boyish, clean-shaven face, and canny eyes.

Bryce didn’t believe Donovan was on the Markovich task force, hadn’t seen his name on any of the circulating memos, or noticed him at the multitudes of debrief meetings.

“How are you Baltimore boys adjusting to life here in DC?” Donovan asked. He had a sort of fluty voice, not exactly threatening.

“Good,” Bryce said, entering more data into the system. “It’s not too different.”

Donovan stepped fully into the office and took a look around. “Listen, boys,” he said, sitting on the edge of their worktable. “If you could put in a good word for me, let the right people know you’re short-handed and could use a little help on Markovich, I’d really appreciate it. I’d like to get in on this detail, even if it means the phones.” The envy came off Donovan like a bad case of BO.

“What are you supposed to be doing?” Graves asked.

“I’m actually working witness protection. I’m supposed to relocate a guy named Dante Lerardi, but I popped over here first because I’m trying to get in good with the SOC, career stuff, you know? So anything I could do to help out with their ops, I want to do it. I’d love the opportunity, if you know what I mean.”

Bryce shrugged, his way of saying he understood. Witness protection wasn’t as glamorous as fugitive apprehension. Marshals jockeying for position and status among the ranks wanted in on the hottest action, and it made sense Donovan wanted a seat at the Markovich table.

Instead of a firm offer, Donovan went away with high hopes and low expectations he and Bryce would work together.

By the time afternoon rolled around, Bryce was famished. He wondered if Angie was available to grab an early bite to eat. He would call only when he knew he could make it happen. He didn’t want to make plans with her he’d have to cancel. Bryce played no games. He wasn’t after a conquest, didn’t simply want to get Angie into the sack. That kind of dating was for the younger set. He knew what he wanted and would go after her patiently and persistently, but always gentlemanly.

Afternoon turned into evening and Markovich had turned into a ghost. All leads were drying up like desert rain. It was going to be a late night, and Bryce’s hopes for a dinner date with Angie were all but dashed. Not everyone at the U.S. Marshals Service working overtime was disappointed by the lack of progress.

Cormack Donovan had returned to the cramped office while Bryce and Graves were packing up their belongings to move into the war room. “Hey, guys, I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Bryce said, not at all sure why he was being thanked, and not feeling any compulsion to ask.

“I’m on the task force now,” Donovan said with a broad smile. “I figured you two put in a good word for me.”

“For sure,” Graves said, nodding. “We talked you up big time.”

Bryce just smiled. “What happened to your witness?”

Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know. One minute I was on the Lerardi detail, and the next thing I know I’m off. I guess they got some other guy to watch him thanks to you two.”

Bryce’s smile retreated. He and Graves hadn’t done a thing to help out Donovan, but Bryce thought it sounded a lot like what had happened to Ray Anderson all those years ago, back when he was on the Antonio Conti detail. One minute Ray had a witness to protect, and the next minute that witness was gone.

Bryce’s gaze reverted to his laptop, but his focus was fractured. Donovan lingered in the doorway, motioning to someone Bryce couldn’t see. Soon enough a second U.S. marshal, dressed similarly to Bryce and Graves in a polo and slacks, appeared in the doorway. He was fair-skinned, lean, fit, and tall, with an angular face and a jaw that almost came to a point. His short hair, cut military style, revealed a broad and nearly creaseless forehead. His eyes were blue and held all the warmth of stone. Without a smile, his expression was a blank.

Donovan said, “These are the Baltimore boys I was telling you about, Bryce Taggart and Gary Graves. If you want to be mad at anybody for getting me out from under your nose, blame these two.”

“Last I checked, it’s a temporary assignment,” the man with Donovan said. “In fact, I came down here to tell your new boss just how temporary.”

Donovan said, “Yeah? Well, once the SOG sees I’m the guy who brought in Markovich, I’m betting the move is going be permanent. Taggart, Graves, this is my soon-to-be ex-boss on witness protection, Raynor Sinclair.”

CHAPTER 52

B
uzzwords come and they go. That’s the job of those words, I guess. For instance, hash tag (ya know, #) is all in right now, but I bet it’s not going to mean anything to kids five years younger than me when they turn 17. Oh yeah. Happy birthday to me! I’m seventeen now. Yea me. I sure feel like I’ve crammed in a lot more years than that into this life-o-mine, but whatever, I’m 17 so happy birthday to me. But the buzzword thing, right? I think Human Trafficking is kind of a buzzword. I’ve been doing some research online and that’s my big conclusion. It’s sort a fad phrase. Hot topic right now, but check with me in five years and let me know if that’s still the case. My fear is some new issue is going to come along and replace it, and people won’t talk about the problem anymore, and some girl is going to be trafficked just like me and because it’s not a buzzword anymore she’ll just think she was just a prostitute or something. #thatwouldbeashame