She watched Stephen Macan walk away, swinging the bag that contained a beautiful scarf for his daughter, who wasn’t pretty enough for a movie career of her own. He wasn’t creepy at all. She got no vibes like that from him. He had a wife to whom he spoke sweetly and a kid about her age. It was happenstance that he saw her and asked a very reasonable question about the gift, and then luck that he saw something in her.
It was the real deal, Nadine decided, a genuine opportunity that she let pass by. And think! The next time her mother might see her could be on TV or in the movies. She tried to imagine her expression. It would be priceless!
The man was a good distance away, almost out of sight.
Nadine took a determined breath and went running after him.
CHAPTER 2
Four weeks later
Angie DeRose arrived on foot at the Columbia Firehouse to have lunch with her parents at the scheduled time, on the scheduled hour, on the scheduled day. Given the fluid nature of her job, that was a minor miracle.
Angie loved the work, though. A good thing because it was all consuming. The phone rang day and night. No one took vacations when kids ran away, and run they did, twenty-four by seven by three sixty-five.
The calls varied. Sometimes it was a crisis with a child custody case, or surveillance work that might require her to spy on a cheating spouse, or follow a lead on a possible parental child abduction. Maybe an irate spouse had gotten wind that their ex was headed off to party—and who was going to watch little Joey while Mom or Dad did the Harlem Shake with a shot of tequila in one hand and a beer chaser in the other? An anxious parent didn’t care one iota what time of day it was, whether or not it was a holiday, or if Angie had plans to meet her parents for a meal. Thus was life as a private investigator. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
The restaurant, a renovated fire station with exposed brick walls, served quality American eats. It was a favorite of the DeRoses. Angie and her mother Kathleen ordered salads and soda water with lime, while her father got the salmon special. It was easy to meet for lunch because her parents lived near her office, still in the same house in Arlington, Virginia where Angie grew up.
Having lunch with her parents grounded Angie. Since founding DeRose & Associates at twenty-eight, five years ago, she had struggled with orbiting so closely to the dregs of humanity. She had gone into the business with a purpose, but had been naïve about the depth of human cruelty. The deplorable ways parents could treat each other or treat their precious children were too numerous to count and endlessly gut-wrenching. Each case was like turning over a rock to see what sort of horror might slither out.
Most difficult were the surveillance gigs to get proof of child abuse. Those hit her the hardest, but they were also the best way to get a kid out of danger. Some of her colleagues—the men, mostly—could shut it off, go to bed without seeing the cigarette burns dappled on a young kid’s arm. Not Angie. She took it all to heart, carried with her the emotion of what she saw every day.
When it was a runaway or a child custody case, she went overboard to get results, to get proof, in order to protect the child. She lived and breathed it. Her wheels were constantly going, just like her office phone. Hell, somebody had to make sure the kids ended up safe or with the right parent.
Over the years, Angie had seen squalor that made a cardboard box on some desolate street corner look like an upgrade. Malnourished children. Beaten children. Children terrified of abuse. Neglected children. Drug-addicted parents who preferred the pipe to their kid. Out-of-control teens who raged against authority and railed against their terrified and despondent parents.
For the most part, Angie saw the world as a broken place that could never be properly fixed. In the presence of her parents, that world shone a little brighter.
She knew she was one of the lucky ones. Not many of her clients wanted to meet their parents for lunch, or surprise them with a spur-of-the-moment visit. Her parents’ support and friendship over the years had made all the difference, especially during the hardest period of her life.
Her best friend Sarah had vanished without a trace. It was senior year of college at the University of Virginia, and they were a few months shy of starting their lives. That semester Sarah got hooked on something—Oxy, the cops thought. Then she was gone, just like that. Gone. And that was how she stayed. Missing.
What had happened to Sarah Winter? Might she still be alive? The questions haunted Angie. She’d longed to do something to honor Sarah’s memory, her spirit. Opening DeRose & Associates Private Investigators, she’d hung a picture of Sarah on the office wall behind her desk. That picture served as an ever-present reminder of Angie’s mission—find the runaway kids and take them back home.
“Daddy, you look tired,” Angie said as they waited for their meals. “Is everything okay?”
Gabriel DeRose’s thinning dark hair rested high on a broad forehead. He kept in shape by walking on the treadmill and doing some weight training, but over the years he had developed a noticeable paunch. The lenses of his black-rimmed glasses magnified the dark circles around his eyes. The skin around his neck was looser, his full face a bit wan. Still, he looked distinguished and poised in his blue pinstriped suit.
He returned a thin smile, and Angie’s heart warmed with love. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just busy at work. That’s all.”
Always busy at work, Angie thought. Like father, like daughter—and like mother. The DeRose family was a kinetic bunch. Her father ran DeRose Financial, a well-respected financial services firm that specialized in investing for high net worth individuals. He had two employees, hundreds of millions under management, and in Angie’s opinion, too much stress. She worried constantly about his health. She wished he would take more time for himself, but he had worked so hard, for so long, he was either too afraid or had forgotten how to hit the off switch.
Kathleen had never worked full-time, but she probably outpaced her husband and daughter in effort and hours worked.
“How’s the committee going, Mom?” Angie asked.
“Which one?” Gabriel said with a laugh.
“You pick, Mom,” Angie said.
“Well, the Lupus Foundation is doing another donor drive, if that’s any indication, and I’m up to my eyeballs in mailings.” Kathleen was one of one point five million Americans living with the disease. She’d been diagnosed when Angie was an infant. Kathleen had hidden little about her disease as Angie grew up, often talking about her fatigue and blinding headaches, and showing Angie her swollen feet, legs, and hands.
Angie was sure lupus was the main reason she grew up an only child, though her mother said otherwise. “One is enough for us. We have everything we need and want with you.”
It made Angie feel better, though never lessened her desire for a sibling, especially a sister.
It took years for Kathleen’s doctors to prescribe the right course of treatment. During that time, lupus episodes had required many trips to the hospital. In addition to an anti-inflammatory regimen, Kathleen took a number of other medications to treat conditions commonly seen with the disease. Lupus had no cure, and although it was an inheritable disease, Angie had never experienced any symptoms.
“I’m sure you’ll surpass last year’s effort,” Angie said.
“Perhaps. I’m assuming I can count on you for twenty-five dollars?” Kathleen said this only a little playfully.
Angie always gave what she could. “I’ll make it fifty this year. I did a transport yesterday that paid pretty well.”
Transport meant Angie had entered a sleeping teenage boy’s bedroom with an ex-law-enforcement agent at her side. They woke the startled kid, and his parents had to explain that he’d be going away for a while, right then and there, non-negotiable. A car was waiting for him downstairs. Angie escorted the parents out of the boy’s bedroom while her partner made it clear who was in charge. They drove the teen a few hundred miles to a wilderness therapy program in southwestern Virginia, and Angie pock
eted a thousand bucks for the effort. It was no problem donating fifty to her mom’s committee. She’d give more if she could.
“How is business going?” Kathleen asked.
“Busy,” Angie said. “Runaways and craptastic behavior seem to be recession-proof.”
“Any time for yourself?” Kathleen’s face showed concern.
Angie resisted the eye roll she had perfected in puberty. “Mom, are we doing this again?”
“Just look here.” Kathleen took out her smartphone and showed Angie a Tinder profile she had made—for Angie.
“Mom! What are you doing?”
“Well, I was curious, that’s all. I saw something about Tinder on 20/20, and it looked promising.”
“Please, stop.”
“Just look for a second. It’s fun. It uses your location so you see people who are near you. You swipe right if you like them and left if you don’t. Couldn’t be any easier! Oh, he’s cute.” Kathleen swiped right.
“Mom. Mom! No. We do not need to do this.”
The phone made a ding sound. Kathleen looked, and her face lit up. “He thinks you’re cute, too! And he’s just three blocks away.”
“Mom!”
“Well, it’s true. You are cute.”
“Dad, don’t encourage her.” Angie didn’t have trouble getting dates. What she had trouble with was keeping relationships. Any guy in Angie’s life had to play second fiddle to the phone. Out to dinner and a case came in—sorry, gotta go. In bed after a lovely wine-and-dine and a kid runs—sorry, but gotta go. Some guys would put up with Angie’s unpredictable workday for a time, but none stuck it out for the long haul.
So just as with Match.com, and eHarmony, and every set-up Angie’s friends had arranged, some Tinder guy would invariably find her long legs, raven hair, and green eyes attractive. They’d come up with some tactful (or not) way to compliment her sculpted figure and commend her for rocking jeans and an evening gown with equal aplomb. They’d appreciate how she could tackle a teenager twice her size and then cry at the end of Pitch Perfect, a movie she’d watch any time it was on. But they’d always, always, get tired of her phone.
The right guy was out there. Angie didn’t think he was on Tinder.
“Well, I’ll e-mail you your username and password. Just give it a try.”
“Your mother means well,” her father said.
“I think I’m a little jaded because of the job,” Angie admitted. “It’s eye-opening to see how much bad there is in the world. Between divorce and fighting over children, infidelity and cheating left and right, it’s hard. And it hasn’t gotten easier.”
“Maybe change careers.”
“I can’t walk away. I love it.”
“You love what’s hurting you,” Kathleen said. “Sounds dysfunctional to me.”
“Yeah, Mom. Well, love hurts.”
“Whatever you do, we’ll support you, you know that,” her father said.
Kathleen took hold of Gabriel’s hand. The gesture warmed Angie’s heart. This was what she wanted for herself some day. She’d been raised in a traditional, old-fashioned family, and after thirty-seven-years of marriage, Angie’s parents still held hands. They were always touching, or laughing, or looking at each other in a loving way. They argued, of course, but not with the sort of rage common among Angie’s clients. Gabriel and Kathleen DeRose had pedestrian disagreements, but nothing that caused lasting bitterness or resentment. As with lupus, there could be flare-ups followed by long periods of calm.
“Let’s just change the subject. How about that?” Angie said.
“Well, then ask me about the Arlington County Fair because that’s another story entirely,” Kathleen said with a roll of the eyes.
“You’re still doing that? I thought you resigned from the board last year.”
“They begged me to come back. How could I say no?”
“And she’s still teaching swimming,” Gabriel said. “Organizing registration now for when the pool opens in May.”
Angie did not look at all surprised. Swimming was something her mother had done for years to help lessen certain lupus symptoms. But Kathleen being Kathleen, she couldn’t just swim on her own. She had to do something on a larger scale, so she volunteered to teach swimming to disadvantaged DC youth every summer at a city pool.
“Guess Dad’s not the only one I’m worried about. You sure you’re not doing too much, Mom? The Arlington Fair board has always been such a headache.”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s just nobody can agree on a theme for this year’s competitive exhibits. I’ve suggested ‘Expanded Horizons’ to celebrate all the opportunities Arlington has to offer, but of course Bill Gibbons has to object to just about everything.”
“I’m just thinking that maybe you should slow down a bit, that’s all.”
Even with lupus in the picture, Angie was more concerned about her father’s health than her mother’s. Kathleen looked splendid and healthy, stylish in her short, graying haircut. Her skin had a radiant glow, with wrinkles that implied more wisdom than age. At sixty, Angie’s mother was still a strikingly beautiful woman, with a kind face and blue eyes the color of the sea.
After the meal, Gabriel slid an oversized white envelope across the table in Angie’s direction. She could see it was unsealed and had no address.
“Dad, is this another prospectus? I still have a few you’ve given me that I haven’t had time to look over yet. Not that I don’t appreciate your financial advice.”
“No, it’s not that,” Gabriel said.
Angie caught something in her father’s eyes—a glimmer of concern, perhaps. She felt uneasy and a little bit nervous. “What is it?” she asked.
“Just open it, dear,” her mother said.
Angie took out the papers, and her chest tightened. “Mom, Dad, why this now? Are both of you okay?”
“We’re fine. We just need to have this talk, and your father thought now would be as good a time as any to make sure you know our wishes.”
“We’re the medical proxy for each other,” Gabriel said, “but if something were to happen to us both—”
“A car accident, for instance,” Kathleen tossed out.
“Okay. God forbid.”
“Just say, if it did, Angie,” Kathleen went on. “You’re an adult and it’s important you know our wishes.”
Angie glanced down at the sheet of paper that had the words ADVANCED HEALTHCARE DIRECTIVE splayed across the top of the page in bold lettering. Her parents had never discussed their end-of-life intentions with her. She skimmed the document. “No CPR, no mechanical ventilation, no tube feeding. What do you guys want?”
“Read it more carefully. It’s only if we’re brain dead, sweetheart,” Kathleen said.
Angie looked aghast. “Mom! Please.”
Gabriel spoke up. “You’re our only child, so we’re counting on you for this. Walt and Louise did this with their kids, and it’s high time we did it with ours.”
Walter and Louise Odette were her parents’ neighbors, but Angie had grown up calling them Uncle Walt and Aunt Louise. The Odettes were the closest thing she had to blood relatives. Her mother and father no longer had contact with their extended families.
Gabriel said, “I also have a will I want you to look over, and instructions on where to find our assets and how to claim them. That sort of thing.”
Angie wasn’t a child. She understood her parents would die one day, but she hoped that day would be a long time coming. She was adult enough to have this conversation, but that didn’t make it any less sad or awkward. “What I want to do is talk about you two taking a trip to Bermuda or someplace warm and fun. Maybe a cruise. Hell, maybe I’ll join you.”
“You know I think those are just Petri dishes on waves,” Kathleen said.
“That’s not the point, Mom. This is a little depressing, and I already have a lot of depressing things to deal with back at work.” Angie slipped the papers back inside the envelope. “I’ll look thi
s over tonight and call you with questions. But what I want is to not need these papers for a long, long time.”
“Yes, agreed,” Kathleen said.
“Now, how about dessert? Who’s with me?”
Angie’s phone rang. It always rang. She spoke in crisp, short sentences, every word purposeful and to the point. Her eyes narrowed while her parents waited in silence.
Angie got up from the table and slipped her phone back into her purse. “Got to take a rain check on that dessert, you two,” she said, coming around the table to kiss her parents on their cheeks. “It’s a runaway.”
CHAPTER 3
Angie worked in a modest but respectable space, with walls painted eggshell white, a dropped ceiling, phone, Internet, and a plug-in kettle so she could sip green tea whenever the spirit moved her (which happened often).
Carolyn Jessup sat across from her, gazing hopefully at the framed photos lining the walls. They were pictures of the many families whose children Angie had helped to reunite. Well, first she found the runaway kids, and then she reunited the families. Not all her on own, either—better-trained resources helped handle reintegration, from organizations such as the NCMEC—National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Angie wasn’t present in all the photographs on her wall, but she was a major part of every operation.
Among the many pictures was one of Angie and Sarah Winter, arms draped around each other, goofy smiles on their faces, looking as if they’d have a million tomorrows. Unlike the other photographs, Sarah’s picture would stay on the wall until the day she was found.
Carolyn had supplied pages of biographical details on Nadine and her family. Angie carefully read through them all. She knew right away she’d need help on the case. The sign on Angie’s office door read DEROSE & ASSOCIATES, PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS, but & Associates was an exaggeration. Angie’s tax return did not list any additional employees on the payroll. She did, however, have an extensive network to tap whenever she needed to farm out jobs or required a skill outside her area of expertise.
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