Forgive Me(106)

She was headed downstairs, where her father used his elliptical.

And where he kept his guns.





CHAPTER 57



The Markovich search was at a standstill. Most everyone, including the team with the SOC (now with Cormack Donovan’s help) were fumbling about in the dark, and not making any progress whatsoever.

Bryce had had some success, though on a completely different front. His contact, Tim Wiley, who had provided him with information on Antonio Conti, worked out of headquarters and happened to be in the building on a Saturday, helping with the Markovich effort. Bryce stopped by Wiley’s office and asked him for a second favor. He needed a little digging into the DeRose identity.

After a couple minutes on his computer, Wiley looked at Bryce with a strange expression on his face. “What are you up to, Taggart?”

“Just . . . um, nothing really. Just . . . Timmy, help me out, will ya? And don’t ask any questions.”

“Yeah, okay,” Wiley said. “But you just pinpointed a second screwed up case with no explanation.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just like with Antonio Conti, only in reverse. I got the DeRose identity here all right—Gabriel, Kathleen, and Angie—but no clue who they were beforehand. There’s absolutely nothing in the case file to tell me.”

Bryce’s expression became strained. He gave Wiley the name William Harrington to search.

“Nope. Nothing there,” Wiley said. “Everything is a hornet’s nest with you. Who screwed up these damn case files so badly?”

Bryce was headed for the door. “That’s what I intend to find out.”



It felt good to breathe fresh air again. Bryce found his car in the crowded parking lot and got settled in the driver’s seat, figuring he’d head off to Alexandria once he got in touch with Angie. Another bit of unsettling news was headed her way. His call rang several times before going to voice mail. He called again and got the same result. Then he called Angie’s office and someone answered, a man whose voice sounded familiar.

“DeRose and Associates. How may I help you?”

“This is Bryce Taggart. I’m looking for Angie DeRose.”

“Hey Bryce, Mike Webb here. We did the job in Baltimore together. I work with Angie.”

“Of course. How are you?”

“Better than you, I think. Heard our boy Markovich did a vanishing act.”

“That he did,” Bryce said. “And a good one at that. Sorry to be in a rush, but is Angie around? It’s sort of urgent.”

“No sir,” Mike said. “Haven’t heard from her. I left a couple messages about a runaway case we’re working. It’s not like her to not to call us back. If you get in touch, could you tell her to give me a call?”

“Will do. Has anybody checked her apartment?” Bryce was headed there next.

“My partner, Bao, went over to her place, but she’s not at home. I’m sure she’s busy with her other investigation.”

“Which one? The photograph?”

“What else? It’s her obsession,” Mike said.

What Mike said gave Bryce an idea. As a law enforcement official, he had access to all sorts of information and could look up most anyone’s address. If Angie wanted to talk to someone about the photograph, who better than her father?





CHAPTER 58



Raynor Sinclair scrambled to his feet, took an improper firing stance, and through blurred vision, got off a haphazard shot at nothing. Angie wasn’t in his sight anymore, and he didn’t know where she had gone.

The strike to his throat had dazed him. He believed she had only a few seconds head start, but a few seconds in that sort of foot race could translate into minutes. He wasn’t concerned about Angie getting out the front or side doors. He had stuck pennies wrapped in tape into the crack between the door and the jamb molding above and below the handle. It was a prank his brothers had pulled on him years ago, so Raynor knew from experience that the technique was extremely effective at locking someone inside. He scanned the backyard and saw no sign of her. He doubted she’d gone that way. The front door would have been his first and best choice. She was bright, exceedingly cunning, and had probably done as he would have.





The gun safe used an electronic lock from Titan, but Angie knew the code—a combination of her birthday and her parents’ anniversary. An adrenaline rush like no other held at bay any emotion or thought not connected to her survival. Her father was dead, murdered in front of her eyes in the most horrible way imaginable, but she would grieve for him later. Her focus was on picking a weapon.

Angie went with the Ruger. It was light, reliable. The basement had a concrete floor with rough-hewn stone walls. Even with the light on it was dark down there . . . and dank . . . and crammed full of boxes and bins of various sizes and materials. The basement had no windows or exits. Its main purpose was for storage.

The space had nooks, such as the crawlspace underneath the stairs, where her father stored cans of paint. On the wall next to the crawlspace was where her father kept his tools—a table saw, workbench, and plenty of wrenches, hammers, extension cords, and the like—all neatly arranged on a pegboard. The heating and cooling systems, hot water tank, and electrical panels were opposite the pegboard.