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.”
Bryce ended the call and thanked Ray for his time. He didn’t have to explain the reason for his sudden departure.
Bryce and Ray were cut from the same cloth.
CHAPTER 49
When Angie arrived at the house Thursday night, she found her father watching a Nats game with Walter Odette and drinking a beer, which he’d sworn off of since his acid reflux flare-up.
Angie said, “Walt, could I have a few minutes alone with my dad?”
Both Walt and the sofa springs groaned as he rose to his feet. “Wish my ligaments came with a warranty. I could use some new ones. Gabe, I’m gonna head home. Louise is expecting me for dinner. We’ll catch up later. Still up for the range this weekend?”