Forgive Me(85)

They were killers who never worked on Mother’s Day and abhorred the use of foul language in front of women. Their family values were in stark contrast to the brutal realities of their profession. The damage Conti’s testimony had done to the crime syndicate was immeasurable. Giordano and Pissano each received life sentences and both died in prison. Other members of the mob received lengthy prison sentences including bosses, underbosses, a consigliere, and various captains and lieutenants—all taken down by the low-level Antonio Conti.

It made sense to Angie why Dot and everyone in the country, as Dot had put it, were aware of the trial. Conti’s home in Williamsburg, where he lived before turning informant, was a media circus, and Conti’s wife, Marie, and their only daughter, Isabella, were frequently filmed and photographed. Archived video footage showed Conti pushing his way through a phalanx of reporters on his way into the courthouse, often with his wife and daughter in tow—a daughter with a deformed right ear. Only a few photos of Isabella Conti were online, but none of them were the same as the one Angie had in her purse.

Where did that photo come from, she wondered.

The picture in the attic had been developed from a negative—had to be, because of the Kodak stamp on the back. Everything Angie had learned since making this discovery fit the narrative she had constructed. The year the photograph was taken and its location matched what she read online. Angie used Google Maps to get a street view of the Williamsburg neighborhood where Conti once lived. Many of buildings were the same ones depicted in the photograph, though the Mayor Koch poster was long gone.

Mike Webb read the Wikipedia page over Angie’s shoulder. “So he’s our man. You think he and your mom had an affair?”

“She would have been in her late twenties, almost thirty back then,” Angie said. “Certainly possible.”

“Married to your dad for how long?”

Angie did some math in her head. “Six or seven years.”

“The old seven year itch,” Mike said, in a sing-song voice.

Angie looked annoyed. “This is my mom we’re talking about. Respect, please.”

Mike held up his hands. “Just trying to find a connection. It would be weirdly fitting given how we profit from that sort of thing, is all.” Mike held up his digital camera as reminder of the sorts of images he’s paid to capture.

“Crossing a line here, Mike. You’re crossing a line.” With her finger, Angie drew an imaginary line on the ground between herself and Mike.

“I’m just saying if our business taught us anything, it’s that infidelity is pretty darn common.” Mike glanced around the office. “Say, where’s Bao? I figured he be here helping you with the research.”

“He’s gone camping with some friends. Won’t be back for a few.”

“Yeah? Speaking of camping, Mr. Tad Hutchinson is doing a little of his own in a lot of seedy motels and never with Mrs. Tad.”

Mike showed Angie the pictures he’d taken on his Nikon D90. Angie wanted to scrub her eyeballs clean, but the evidence would help their client retain custody of her kids once she filed for divorce. Often in child custody and divorce matters, the one who hired a private investigator was the one who won.

“Good work there, Mike.”

“Can’t crack this case, though.” Mike tapped the wiki page for Antonio Conti.

“There’s a connection between Conti and my mom. I just need to find it.”

“What are the options?”

“Lovers, like you suggested,” Angie said.

“What about siblings?” Mike tossed out the idea nonchalantly and watched as Angie’s jaw fell open.

“But my mom’s maiden name was Tyler, not Conti.”

“For all you know,” Mike said. “You have no connection to your extended family. I’m just saying, maybe she and Antonio were related.”

Angie gave it some thought. It would make Isabella a cousin. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my dad.”

“Any luck on the death certificate?”

“Zero,” Angie said, making the same shape with her fingers. “Isabella Conti died March fourth nineteen eighty-eight if you believe what my mom wrote on the back of the picture. I searched all the databases and got nothing.”

“No Isabella Conti?”

“There’s a record of her birth, but not of her death.”

“Maybe your mom was wrong about Isabella dying,” Mike suggested.

“You think the code means something else? Then Isabella might still be alive.”

Mike thought it over. “No. Honestly, I don’t think so. I don’t have a specific reason, just a gut feeling. I think that girl is dead and I think your mom knew it.”

A thought struck Angie and her face lit up. “What if she’s sort of dead.”

“Oh, like a vampire,” Mike said, making a fang-face with his mouth. “I like the possibility.”

“No. Not like that. Like what happens when you inform on the mob”

“You get dead,” Mike said.

“Or you get gone,” Angie said.

It was Mike’s expression that brightened. “You think they went into witness protection?”

“How else would they survive?”

“So March the fourth?”