Forgive Me (30 page)

“How many Americans?”

“Five out of the fifteen, including Nadine.”

“Five,” Angie repeated.

“These guys could make tens of thousands of dollars per week per girl,” Bryce said. “It’s huge business. Thirty some odd billion dollars per year according to some estimates I’ve seen reports estimating two hundred thousdand CSE victims in the US alone.”

CSE—commercial sexual exploitation. Angie knew the acronym, but thought Bryce’s figure was low. She’d heard it was more like three hundred fifty thousand children, but it might include all of North America. It certainly doesn’t account for women and men over the age of 18. That number would be much higher.

“It’s just slavery wearing a new disguise,” she said, deciding not correct his number.

“They were still grooming Nadine for more. Some of the girls were sold to dozens of men a day. Not everything took place in the basement. Some girls worked different motels in the area.”

“Where did he find them? I know he got Nadine at the shops at Union Station. What about the others?”

“Not sure about the Americans. But the foreigners are from Eastern Europe mostly,” Bryce said. “Markovich must have access to a smuggling pipeline. We’ll figure out how got them here. That I’m sure of.”

“That’s great. But what’s going to happen to the girls now?”

Not all the runaways Angie tracked down ended up being trafficked for sex, but enough did to give her experience with the cruel irony of rescue. Without their traffickers, a lot of the girls had no place to live and no means to support themselves.

“There’s help out there,” Bryce said. “The government might seem big and bloated, but undocumented juveniles and adults have access to pretty good resources from the Department of Health and Human Services. The Office of Refugee Resettlement, I’ve heard, has an outstanding program and is pretty well funded through Catholic Charities. They won’t be abandoned.”

“So no jail?”

“No jail.”

“And Tasha? She was Nadine’s lifeline in there.”

“I’m guessing they’re all going to apply for T Visas. It’s for trafficking victims and it allows them to stay. ORR helps with that, as well.”

Angie frowned. “You and I both know a lot of those girls are going to end up working in strip clubs.”

Bryce shrugged. “Not saying you’re wrong. We found a lot of narcotics in the apartments. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nadine’s hooked on something. I also wouldn’t be surprised if some of the girls want a good payday to fuel their habit.”

Angie was disgusted by it all. The adage “sex sells” was meaningless to most people, a slogan and nothing more. But it was real for her. It was the face of many of the kids she tracked down.

“How’d you get into this business, anyway?” Bryce asked.

Angie took a sip of her tea. Her throat was unusually dry and she wasn’t sure it was from the stale hospital air. “You want the whole story or the Cliff notes?”

The twinkle in Bryce’s eyes flared. “The crew at McSorley’s isn’t missing me.”

Angie told Bryce about Sarah Winter and her friend Madeline Hartsock. She described how she’d become a PI, and Madeline a prosecutor, because Sarah’s disappearance inspired them to make a difference. Angie felt comfortable opening up to Bryce. She told him about her mother’s death, and her father’s health problems. She shared more with him in a few minutes than she’d done with men she’d dated for months.

“What about you?” Angie asked. “Former military?”

“Why do you ask?” Bryce said. “It’s my bad-assery, isn’t it? I’ve been told I radiate it.”

Angie laughed. “No, it’s just that a lot of marshals come from the military. My dad’s best friend was in the service.”

“Oh yeah? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

“Walter Odette.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Bryce, but Walter was long retired.

“I’m not military,” Bryce said. “I’m not really your typical U.S. marshal, either.”

“Oh? What are you?”

“English major,” Bryce said. “Poetry, in fact.”

Angie could barely contain her surprise. “You’re a poet?”

“No,” Bryce said, holding up a finger, a gesture intended to correct her mistake. “I’m a former student of poetry. I’m actually a terrible poet. As in roses are red, violets are blue, terrible. But I can appreciate good work. Emily Dickinson, Dylan Thomas, Wordsworth, Whitman.”

“I’m not too familiar with poetry. If I were to pick a poet to read, where would I start?”

“Starter poetry? I’d go with Judith Viorst.”

“Ok. Which book should I buy?”

“Try
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
”

Angie squinted. “Wasn’t that a movie with Steve Carell?”

“Blasphemy,” Bryce said. “It was a children’s book first and foremost. But I did see the movie with a nephew, and it was pretty good fun.”

“No kids?” Angie flushed with embarrassment.
Oh God, Angie, you really had to go there?
She wanted to slap her forehead as her face turned hot and probably red.

Bryce just smiled. “No. No Mrs. Bryce, either, in case you were wondering. I’ve had my opportunities, but I let them pass me by. And before you think it, I’m not afraid of commitment.”

Angie gave him a crooked smile. “Well, what is it with you, then?” She’d already dipped her toe in the water. Why not dive in?

Bryce’s gaze revealed nothing. “You’ll have to read my poetry to find out.”

“You said it was terrible.”

“And that right there could explain why a handsome devil like me is still single at thirty-three.” He winked.

Angie returned a laugh.

“No, the truth is I haven’t met the right person. Nothing more exciting than that. There’s no great drama to my joining the Marshals Service either. I grew up in Bethesda. Green yard, loving parents, an annoying sister who is now my best friend in the world. I went to college, studied poetry, and one day realized I didn’t know a bit about this world. The grit. The grime. The underbelly. I knew quads and ultimate Frisbee and beer and bands like Nirvana, so after college I applied for the Marshals. Seemed like a good way to get that kind of experience. Okay, I watched
The Fugitive
, and then I applied.”

Angie laughed again. If he was trying to worm his way into her good graces, he was doing a good job. “At least you admit it,” she said.

“Anyway, I’ve been with the Marshals ever since. Worked in a lot of different cities—cue another reason I’m single—and somehow I ended up here in lovely Baltimore.”

Angie held up her phone. “This usually doesn’t stop ringing. My dad thinks that’s the reason I’m still single. He may be right.”

“Since we’re on the subject, maybe I could buy you a drink sometime.”

Angie liked his confidence. There was no reason to dance around attraction. People got picked up in bars and online, so why not after helping to break up a human trafficking ring?

“I live in Virginia,” Angie said.

Bryce did not seem deterred. “I have this contraption called a car. I swear it makes long distance seem like nothing.”

Oh, that smile.

“Yes. You can take me out for a drink some time.”

“McSorley’s,” Bryce said, an eyebrow arched, finger pointing at the wall behind her as if to imply the bar lay just beyond.

“Some time, but not tonight. It’s been a heck of day and I’ve got to get home, check up on my dad. I just have to wait for Nadine’s parents to show up. They’ll be here soon.”

“It’s not going to be an easy re-entry for her,” Bryce said.

“Tell me about it. Her parents are the anti-Waltons.”

“The Waltons? Who are they?”

Angie felt a flush of embarrassment from the joke that had fallen flat.

Bryce gave a little laugh. “I’m kidding. I know the Waltons. Good night Bobby Sue, good night John Boy, goodnight moon.”

“Another of your favorite poets?”

“Margret Wise Brown. One of the best.”

Angie found Bryce refreshing. She had gone on plenty of dates where after three sips of a drink she was eyeing the door. She had the feeling she could talk to Bryce for hours and never tire of his company.

“What about the crew?” she asked. “How long will they be off the streets?”

Bryce gave the question some serious thought. It wasn’t all jokes and games to him.

“The trafficking charges are going to be easy. Any girl under the age of eighteen involved in sex for money is by law being trafficked. That’s years in the clink right there.”

“What about kidnapping?”

“Good point,” Bryce said. “None of the girls were chained up, but there were bars on the windows and most of the apartments locked from the outside. So there’s a case to be made for forced confinement.”

Angie’s eyes turned fierce. “It’s not a question there. It was forced.”

“Hey, I’m on your side,” Bryce said, holding up his hands. “I’m talking in the eyes of the law. You and I both know Nadine did what she believed she had to do to survive.”

“How long?”

“Just my opinion, but I’d say Buggy gets twenty-five to thirty. Shooting at U.S. marshals isn’t a good idea. Casper and Ricardo, this wasn’t their first rodeo, so they’ve got the minimum fifteen coming their way. Now, Ivan Markovich is another matter entirely. Guy has no record. He’ll get bail of some sort, and then it’s a question of how many years they can pin on him. They’ll give him twenty and he’ll do fifteen. That’s my best guess.”

“Fifteen years for destroying all those lives.”

“Nadine’s still alive. It could be worse.”

Angie’s mind flashed on a picture of Sarah Winter. Was Sarah one of those worst-case scenarios? “Any chance Markovich gets off?”

“Not really,” Bryce said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because of Nadine.”

“What if she won’t testify?” Angie asked. “She did try to save Ricardo, after all.”

“She doesn’t have to testify. The FBI boys found her diary.”

CHAPTER 39

A
ngie drove Mike from her office to the Duke Street skate park, where Bao was waiting for them. The cloudless sky was the kind of cobalt blue that made the spring and summer months seem so darn short. It had been three days since the Nadine job had come to an end and Angie hadn’t spent much of that time outdoors. She’d been with her dad, who was still feeling under the weather and working from home these days, or she’d been at the office trying to put the pieces of her neglected business back together again. She had heard from Bryce, but only via text message. His texts were friendly and struck the perfect balance between
I’m interested in you
and
I’m not going to turn into a stalker
. They hadn’t made an official plan to meet, but no question, he intrigued her. She had every intention of continuing their cafeteria conversation in person.

For now, text messaging would have to suffice. Bryce provided updates on the girls, and he wanted Angie to pass along a message to Nadine. Ricardo, Buggy, and Casper didn’t or couldn’t make bail. Those three were locked up at least until trial and there was every reason to believe they would stay incarcerated for years longer.

Ivan “Stinger” Markovich was a different story. He’d posted a half million-dollar bond, no problem there, and had only to surrender his passport. Essentially he was back to living the life of Ivan. Nadine didn’t need to know everything.

The bright sunshine and warm wind brushed against Angie’s skin and rejuvenated her spirits, though her time outside would have to be short. Nadine and her mother were driving down from Potomac to meet Angie in her office. The purpose of the meeting was simply to say thank you. It would be the first time Angie and Nadine had met in person, and the pending encounter left her feeling strangely anxious.

Why did Nadine touch her so deeply
? Angie wondered if it had something to do with timing. After all, Nadine’s case coincided with her mother’s death and with the appearance of a mysterious picture of a sad little girl. Maybe, in a way, Nadine had come to represent the girl in that photograph—a lost child in need of saving. But Nadine was real, not a mysterious photograph Angie kept in her purse at all times. Unlike the girl with the misshapen ear, Nadine was someone Angie could help.

The skate park, a concrete plaza enclosed in chain link fencing, featured a variety of well maintained (and graffiti free) ramps and rails. People of Bao’s ilk, those who lacked a gene for fear, traversed the obstacles at a startling rate of speed, turning their boards in midair, defying gravity and in some instances logic when they nailed a perfect landing.

Angie had questioned Bao’s insistence on meeting there and not at the office. His reply, “We should meet where my inspiration struck.”

He wouldn’t say more.

Of all the people hanging around the skate park, Mike Webb, dressed in his signature plaid and khakis, was perhaps the least hip of the bunch. Drinking coffee from a thermos didn’t elevate his hipster status any. Angie wore her most comfortable attire—Converse sneakers, black drawstring pants, and a long-sleeve white jersey. She fit in more than Mike, but not by much.

Bao, wearing a baseball shirt with
THRASHER
emblazoned on the front and knee length shorts, waved to Angie from the top of a high ramp. He descended like a missile, then used the back tail of the skateboard to bring it to a full stop five feet before taking Angie and Mike down like bowling pins.

“Yo, Ange, Mikey, so stoked you’re here. This is gonna blow your minds.” Bao looked like a kid with a Toys R Us gift card from Grandma.

“Happy to trek to you. What do you got?” Mike asked.

“The answer,” Bao said with a gleam in his eyes. “Meet me over at the picnic tables. Gotta grab my backpack.”

Moments later, he rolled over to one of several redwood tables outside the enclosure. He sat down across from Mike and Angie and powered up his computer. Mike showed his growing impatience by making “hurry up” gestures. Angie could relate; the anticipation was hard for her to take.

Bao turned his laptop screen to face them. The screen showed a website open to a page displaying a string of alphanumeric characters in the center and nothing else. Angie recognized the sequence immediately; she had it memorized, in fact.