Forgive Me(91)

He was smitten, no two ways about it. Angie was the package—able, beautiful, and confident, the ABCs to Bryce’s heart—but it was more than just pheromones working overtime. He felt they had a lot in common, the important things. They were cut from the same cloth. The job was a calling, a passion for each. You had to be like Angie to truly understand a woman like her, and Bryce got it. He lived it, embodied it. They were members of the same tribe, like with like.

But anything having to do with Angie would have to play out sometime down the road. It wasn’t the time for the Bryce Taggart’s Woo Machine to go fully operational. The Conti matter had to be resolved first. Angie needed closure, and Bryce was lucky enough to be in a position to help. Even better, he could do it without violating any laws. Well, without egregiously violating them. He was certainly skirting close to the ethical edge. Ray Anderson didn’t need to know about Angie DeRose, he just needed to answer some questions from his past.

Bryce had never been to Russett, Maryland before, never had a reason to go there. Bordered by Little Patuxent River and Oxbow Lake, it was a throwback to a simpler time with modest homes, leafy streets, and neighbors known by name. Compared to Bethesda, where Bryce grew up, Russett was a speck of land with a third of the population. Ray was one of 13,000 residents, and owned a nice colonial home with blue vinyl siding and black shutters. He kept his lawn trimmed, and a small garden out front well tended.

Bryce had called beforehand, so Ray was at home and expecting him.

Ray looked a little like Bryce’s dad—soft in the middle, hard in the face, with a lot of experience tucked inside the folds of his many wrinkles. He had kind blue eyes, a head of silver hair, and was dressed like Bryce in a plaid shirt and jeans. For a man in his late seventies, Ray looked robust and healthy.

Inside the house, the furniture was nice—traditional style and mostly what one would expect for a guy living off his government pension. The walls were papered with pictures of children and grandchildren.

They shook hello. Ray’s hands were rough and calloused, and one finger was bandaged.

“I teach shop at the local voc-tech school,” Ray explained, holding up the bandaged finger for Bryce’s benefit. “Made for a good second career. But in my old age, the hammer moves faster than the reflexes.”

Bryce laughed, and then he complimented Ray for having a nice place. It was how guys talked, nice place instead of a lovely home.

Ray took the compliment, said he was blessed, and then gave full credit to his wife. “You know how crazy the Marshals’ life can be. Sally was the glue that kept it all together.”

Eventually they settled on the screen porch overlooking a lush backyard and drank sweet tea from tall glasses filled with ice. Sally was out for the afternoon so he and Bryce had plenty of time to chat, to reminisce. Ray sounded pleased about it and Bryce took it as a signal not to jump right into the purpose of his visit.

He gave Ray time to jawbone about his second greatest love after his family—the U.S. Marshals Service. They didn’t have a lot of connections in common, their careers had happened in different eras, but Ray’s stories gave Bryce the sense that Ray had enjoyed a distinguished career, one that concluded with a stint on the witness protection team.

That gave Bryce the opening he sought. “I have a case I want to know if you remember.”

“Ah, is this what you wouldn’t discuss with me over the phone?”

“I believe important things are best discussed in person.”

“And I believe when you’re as old as I am, everything is important. So shoot. I’ll help however I can.”

Bryce gave a brief overview of Antonio Conti and his young family who went into witness protection when Ray was forty-six, already had twenty years in the service, and would be out entirely ten years later. The name Conti didn’t jump right out at him. He stared off into space a moment while collecting fragments from his past.

Using his phone, Bryce scanned his photos and showed Ray a picture of Isabella Conti. It was the one Angie had sent to him.

Ray pointed to the girl’s ear as though that had triggered a memory. “Oh yeah, Conti. Mob rat. I remember now. Guess it didn’t stick because I wasn’t on the case for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the day they were slated to go into the program I was taken off the assignment. It was kind of strange, actually.”

“Strange how?” Bryce was leaning forward, hands on his knees, listening intently.

“Usually we were on a case for three or four months, at least until the witness transitioned fully into a new life. We would do check-ins, schedule phone calls, have onsite visits, that sort of thing. Conti was the first and only time I got pulled from a detail like that without any real explanation. I have no idea what happened to that family.”

Ray’s story sounded familiar. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the Contis. Before Bryce could ask another question, his phone rang. He saw it was a call from his fellow U.S. Marshal, Gary Graves.

“Bryce, you sitting down?”

“Yeah.”

“Our boy Ivan Markovich has disappeared. He was supposed to check in with his parole officer, but no word. Went to the house and found his GPS monitor on the kitchen table and no Stinger Markovich to be found. Your ass is wanted in Washington ASAP. We’re on the task force, brother. We got his boys, now we get to go and get the big man himself.”