Page 78 of A Favor Owed

“You mind if I borrow your colleague there for a minute, ma’am?” I ask Angelina’s friend.

The friend looks surprised but unconcerned. “Sure. No problem. I’ll wait next door at the coffee shop, Angela.”

“We won’t be long,” I promise her.

Angelina is looking at me without any kind of expression, like getting pulled aside by an FBI agent happens to her every day. I wonder if she’s been groomed for this kind of thing. Usually the girls just learn to be loyal and keep their mouths shut, but who knows? Times are changing, you know?

The meeting had been held at a family justice center facility, where police and social workers work together and take care of victims needing assistance and sing kumbaya. They happily open a sparse but nonintimidating interview room for me, a place where victims probably meet with their caseworkers.

“Have a seat, Ms. Pini,” I say after closing the door behind us.

Angelina freezes and stares at me. “What?”

“Angelina Pini,” I say. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” I gesture for her to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs, but she doesn’t move toward it.

“What is this about?” she says, and I instantly recognize the signs of fear—thickened voice, wide eyes, loss of color.

“I’m here to ask for your help, ma’am,” I say, taking a seat.

She stares at me, seeming paralyzed. “Are you really FBI?”

“I’m going to hand you my badge, okay? You can take a look.” I reach inside my jacket pocket and see her flinch. Yep, this is definitely a girl used to being around weapons. I slowly pull out my badge and slide it across the table. She picks it up, never taking her eyes off me. Then she peruses it like it holds the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

“I’m just curious,” I say when she hands it back to me. “If I wasn’t FBI, who exactly would I be?”

She sits down across from me. “Someone my family sent,” she says. “For all I know, my dad has plenty of you people on his payroll.”

Ah, okay. Now it makes sense.

“I don’t have a thing to do with your family other than working my ass off to put your pops away where he belongs,” I say.

She shakes her head. I note that her fingers tighten on the arms of the chair, her knuckles turning white. “I can’t.”

“You can’t what? I haven’t even made a request yet. How do you know?”

“I can’t help you put him away.”

“Daddy’s little girl, huh?”

“Not even close, no,” she says flatly. I had expected a flare of temper or something, but this one is a cool little cucumber, her fear and white knuckles notwithstanding.

“Then what’s the issue?”

“I value my life,” she says, a sarcastic edge to her voice. “I assume, Agent Rivera, that you know what my family does to snitches.”

“Well, if it came to that, my friends over at the U.S. Marshals Service run a nice little program commonly known as witness protection.”

“Not happening. No way.” She stands up, trying to take control of a situation that she now knows is way over her head. “I can’t even have this conversation with you.”

“Angelina,” I say.

“It’s Angela now.” She picks up her tote bag and starts to leave.

“Why are you here at this thing, doing this work, Angela?”

She pauses on her way out and turns back to look at me. “You probably know why.”

“I know about your father’s business. I know his sidekicks run it for him so your pops can focus on keeping the other associates in line. You doing this out of guilt?”

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