Forgive Me(48)

“I was asking myself that very question. Let’s watch this place for a while.” He was parked on the other side of the two-way street, a few cars behind her, facing the opposite direction.

“You watch for me for a bit. I want to take a look at this girl.”

From her PI work, Angie knew a great deal about age progression. It was especially tricky to do with very young children from a single photograph. Face shapes change dramatically by adulthood, making it hard to predict the changes. Variables in lighting, shadows, and expression compounded the challenge.

NCMEC was good at solving that complex problem. Its age-progressions had, over the years, been instrumental in the recovery of hundreds of missing children. It was part art and part science, and the folks at NCMEC were kind to apply their expertise to Angie’s case.

NCMEC could also help her with identification, since they regularly shared age-progressed images with the FBI and with thousands of police departments across the nation. But this photo came with no parent for NCMEC progression experts to consult. Nobody could say anything about the girl’s personal tastes—how she maybe loved bangs or preferred her hair short. They didn’t have photos of the parents as children or of other siblings to better predict how the skull and face would lengthen. Age progression of the single photograph amounted to little more than a shot in the dark.

Angie held a breath, waiting for the image to display on her phone. And there she was.

The older version of Jane Doe had fuller lips than the original photograph. Her eyes were round and wide, but a bit more deeply set, which perhaps was why her smile still seemed a little sad. The forensic artists gave her dark brunette hair and made it long and layered. The face shape they selected was more oval than the young girl’s and the nose had grown prominently.

Angie got a sense this girl was from some distinct ethnicity. Italian, she thought. The darker complexion seemed to go with her darker hair. She had flawless skin, which was nice to imagine, but probably inaccurate.

She was, however, very pretty, heads-turning pretty. And if anybody did give her a look, they would see a beautiful woman with one perfectly formed ear.

Angie could not take her eyes off the image. This girl was connected to some secret part of her mother’s life.

Angie called Mike again. “Did you look at the rendering?”

“Of course,” Mike said. “How could I not? Beautiful girl.”

“It’s driving me crazy not knowing.”

“NCMEC will send it around. They’re going to see about running it through the FBI’s face recognition database.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“We’re going to get an answer, Ange. It’s just going to take time.”

“Between that picture from New York City in 1988 to this one, I can’t stop wondering about our girl’s journey. What do you think her name is?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Just tell me the first name that comes to you.”

“That seems a bit silly, don’t you think?”

“Humor me.”

“Um, all right. How about—Angie?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” she said without a laugh.

“Well, that’s the first name that came to me.”

“Do it for real.”

“Okay, okay. Um—Stella.”

“Stella? Really. That’s about as WASPY as it gets. Did you even look at the picture? This girl is Italian, or Greek, or something. I’m thinking Lydia or Carissa.”

“Where the hell did you get those names from?”

“Greek girls I went to middle school with.”

“Hey, hold off on naming that girl a second. You see what I see?”

Angie peered out the windshield at a thin man in a bowling shirt with a fedora hat on his head, strolling down the street with two white guys in business suits close on his heels. Street lamps illuminated details in their faces and bodies. These three didn’t look like bosom buddies to Angie. Fedora Hat made no eye contact and initiated no conversation with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum as he escorted them down the same alley that had swallowed Markovich.

This wasn’t Angie’s first rodeo. She had a pretty good sense what might be going on inside that apartment building.

“If those three are pals, I’m the Pope,” Mike said.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“You thought if those three are pals, I’m the Pope? What are the chances of that?”

“Mike, please. Not now.”

“What do we do?” he asked.

“Do? We watch and wait. See if Nadine comes out.”

“What about trying to get inside that building?”

“What about we might get shot.”

“Good point. Police?”

“Not until I see Nadine. If this place is what I think it is, these guys could have a direct line to someone on the force.”

“Ah, the Thin Blue Discount.”

“I’ve seen it before. If this is some sort of brothel, and we’re too hasty, Markovich could make the girls disappear in a heartbeat. No, this is a wait and see game.”

“Katie’s got the kids, and my next rental gig isn’t until the weekend. I’m all yours until then.”

“Good. ’Cause this might take awhile. Nothing like a wet wipe shower to make a girl feel beautiful.”