Forgive Me(22)

CHAPTER 11



It was the twenty-first day of April and Nadine Jessup had been missing for a little over five weeks. Bao was sitting at Angie’s desk when she arrived at the offices of DeRose & Associates. He sat in her chair gazing at his laptop, Beats By Dre headphones snapped in place, white canvas sneakers on the desk, fingers feverishly tapping away at his keyboard to what seemed like the rhythm of the music. His skateboard, his only mode of transportation, leaned against the wall and gave Angie a good view of the scuffed up wheels and stickers plastered on the bottom.

Bao wore dark, loose-fitting jeans and a maroon T-shirt with a panda pictured on the front. He was one of the few people she knew who could rock a panda bear T-shirt without looking like an eight-year-old boy. His dark hair was free-flowing and his piercings were plentiful but not overdone. Whatever Bao put on, Bao owned it. He could make Izods look like a new trend in skater fashion.

Angie had on a low cut black shirt and gray slacks, fairly typical attire for her. She always dressed comfortably. The day could be unpredictable. With a phone call, she might go from the desk to her car on a stakeout.

“What’s the latest?” she asked.

Bao said nothing as he continued to type.

Angie waved her arms in front of him until she got his attention. He slipped his headphones off and she could feel the vibration of the music in her own ears. “You realize that’s going to permanently damage your hearing, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Funny, Bao. Where’s Mike?”

As if on cue, she heard the toilet flush and the faucet run. A moment later, Mike Webb emerged from the only other room in her office, buttoning his pants while he pressed his cell phone to his shoulder with his ear.

Mike Webb was in his fifties and looked every bit that age. His neatly trimmed beard had gone gray, but specks of dark hair remained peppered throughout. The hair on his head, silver at the temples, had retreated from the front like glacial melt, but a respectable amount remained so he could still rock a side part. His face was kind. If he added padding to an already decent-sized paunch, Mike could easily pass for Saint Nicholas at any mall in America. He always wore button-down shirts with pattern designs (checks and plaids) and khakis, the uniform of a hardware store manager—which happened to be one of his many previous careers. Now he was part of the & Associates team, along with his other job.

He talked into the phone. “Okay, how about this, Mrs. Walker. I’ll do the Bounceland Ultimate Combo, dunk tank, and I’ll throw in an obstacle course. Same price.”

Angie looked at Mike aghast as she quickly shut the bathroom door. Whatever he just did in there needed to stay in there. Mike Webb, not being the bashful type, probably couldn’t care less that he had fouled the office with his business, nor did he seem to mind conducting another type of business while on the can.

“Okay, fine. What about the cotton candy machine? Is that still a go? Great. Thank you, Mrs. Walker, for choosing Bouncy Time Funland Rentals. We bounce for you. Have a great day.”

Angie glared at Mike, hands on her hips.

“What?” he asked.

“That’s just gross,” Angie said.

“What is?” He really didn’t get it.

“You. Talking to Mrs. Walker on the phone while you’re doing”—she pointed to the bathroom door—“that.”

“I had her on mute. And now I have an eight hundred dollar rental for this Saturday, thank you very much.”

Mike had started Bouncy Time Funland Rentals with one bounce house in his inventory. Now he had a warehouse full of bouncy castles and obstacle courses that covered the spectrum from Dora the Explorer to Spider Man.

“What’s the latest on the Nadine Jessup case?”

“I interviewed—um—hang on a second.” Mike crossed the room and fished a little black notebook from his laptop bag. He flipped quickly through the pages as he scanned them. He lived and died by that notebook. His handwriting made chicken scratch look like calligraphy. How he could read it was a mystery to Angie, but he was a copious note taker, even as he digitally recorded every interview.

A few years back, he had come to Angie as a client. He had separated from his wife of ten years and suspected her of neglecting their two young children. He had married late in life. His wife, twelve years his junior, still had some giddyup left in her party tank. He’d wanted evidence that she was leaving the kids, eight and six at the time, to hit the bars in Old Town Alexandria.

Angie took Mike’s case, no problem. She had a license to carry a concealed weapon, but rarely did. Her weapon of choice was a video camera. It helped that she could blend. Who would think the girl walking behind was recording your every movement using a camera hidden in her eyeglasses? She knew her way around the firing range, but men didn’t come to Angie because they wanted a tough-talking Sam Spade type. They came because they specifically wanted a female PI.

Women’s intuition might be a cliché, but the saying came about for some reason. Angie trusted her gut instinct. She could usually pick the cases where something shady was going on. Male clients, who made up a significant portion of her business, often felt a woman could best understand what they were going through. She respected the therapeutic aspect of the job. She understood that plenty of referrals had come because of her empathetic nature. Empathy was vital in cases of runaway children and affairs of the heart.