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?”
“Maybe that’s the date they all became somebody else?”
Mike gave a nod of approval. “So what now?”
Angie took out her cell phone. “Now, I call a guy I know who wants to take me out to dinner.”
CHAPTER 45
The car carrying Dante Lerardi hit a pothole and bounced hard enough to send a splash of Jameson and soda onto his pant leg. “Hey!” he shouted from the back seat, holding his drink far away from his body. “Take it easy there, Pedro. This is an Armani here. Now it’s all stained.”
Raynor Sinclair never told Dante his real name, and Dante never asked. The sobriquet amused Raynor, who had a fair complexion and could claim only Irish and English heritage. He cracked a half smile Dante couldn’t see, dug out a handful of napkins from the center console, and retrieved a fresh can of soda water from the small cooler on the passenger seat beside him.
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Lerardi.” He passed the items back to Dante with his gloved hand. “If you dab the pants with the soda, it should take out any stain.”
Dante cracked open the can, dipped the napkin into the opening, and did some dabbing with a scowl on his face. “This suit probably cost more than you make in a month.” He had a hard-edged voice and the clipped speaking style of a hurry-it-up Northerner.
“Again, I apologize.” Raynor kept a neutral voice to go along with his neutral expression. It wasn’t easy to remain calm and composed in Dante’s presence. The man had been antagonistic and boorish for most of the two-hour drive, but Raynor took the high road and acted like a true professional. He looked like a professional, too, dressed in a designer suit with a white shirt and black tie, the outfit of a chauffeur, someone who should be good at avoiding potholes. But then again, he wasn’t a chauffeur.
Dante grumbled as he dabbed the wet spot, expanding against the brown fabric of his suit pants. “I look like I pissed myself. Be more careful, all right?”