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Authors: James Patterson
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it. I just knew that I had to do something, for my own peaceof mind. Anything to rule this guy in or out. It felt like keeping a promise to those girls, even if it wasn’t one I’d made out loud.
I started with a basic online search, and it was quickly apparent that this scum bucket, Pietro Angeletti, had a whole lot more stink on him than I ever expected to find so quickly.
With the resources we had in the CART, it took only a few minutes to find hisPrecious Moments franchise in Hingham and, more importantly, to see that he had a small but distinct criminal record.
Angeletti had been convicted twice on domestic violence charges. The first was four years earlier, against his own sister, in Michigan. More recently, there was an arrest and an overnight in jail after a fight with his girlfriend in Dedham. None of it was a slam dunk, but it suredidn’t make the guy look
less
suspicious.
From there, it seemed like the next logical step was to go get a firsthand take on this dude and see what else it might tell me. So I called Angeletti’s studio and made an appointment for the next evening after work. I didn’t even consider identifying myself as FBI. Just the opposite, actually. I used a fake name, Amy Smith, and said this was for my highschool senior portrait. I was just slightly alarmed at how easily the lie slid out of me.
Maybe I was getting a little obsessed. It wouldn’t have been the first time, or the second. Hell, at MIT, obsessive thinking is the kind of thing they give you As for. And I was too curious to stop now.
But of course, we all know what they say about curiosity, right?
Just call me Angela the cat.
CHAPTER 22
PIETRO ANGELETTI’S STUDIO was a storefront in a crappy strip mall in Hingham. The window was etched with PRECIOUS MOMENTS and he had a row of faded school portraits hung in frames across the bottom of the glass. The whole place felt just about as sketchy from the outside as I might have imagined.
An electric bell chimed when I went in.
“Be right there,” a male voice called from theback.
“Take your time,” I answered while I scanned around, looking for a phone, laptop, or anything with an internet connection. I didn’t have a plan, exactly. Just to do what I’d been doing in the field all along: watching and listening.
As I was glancing through one of the brochures by the door, I heard the click of a shutter. I looked up and saw someone, presumably Angeletti, standing bythe partition wall that divided the front from the studio in the back.
“Amy, right?” he asked, lowering the SLR camera he’d been pointing my way.
“That’s me,” I said.
“I always like to start off with a few candids,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
The surprise was how hot he was—nothing like the pornstache-wearing letch I’d been expecting. He was at least six one, with a cultivated shadowof a beard and the kind of shoulders you can’t help noticing.
It made sense, I realized, if he was seducing pretty girls. Which was still just a big
if,
of course. I was out on a limb here and I knew it.
“You said this was a senior portrait?” he asked, coming over to shake my hand. “I would have guessed you were older than that. You don’t look like a high school girl.”
“I get that a lot,” Isaid.
The irony was, he didn’t even know he was right. It was just cheesy flattery to try to make me feel special. I’d been here less than a minute and Pietro was living right up to his own creepy reputation.
“Come on back,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder. The partition behind him was just a flimsy wall with no doors, so I didn’t mind following him to the studio area. I wanted to get afull look around. And besides, I didn’t come completely unprepared.
In the back, he had the usual collection of umbrella lights and a posing area with a collection of backdrops you could pull down from the ceiling. Off to the side was a desk on which I could see a laptop sitting open. Next to
I started with a basic online search, and it was quickly apparent that this scum bucket, Pietro Angeletti, had a whole lot more stink on him than I ever expected to find so quickly.
With the resources we had in the CART, it took only a few minutes to find hisPrecious Moments franchise in Hingham and, more importantly, to see that he had a small but distinct criminal record.
Angeletti had been convicted twice on domestic violence charges. The first was four years earlier, against his own sister, in Michigan. More recently, there was an arrest and an overnight in jail after a fight with his girlfriend in Dedham. None of it was a slam dunk, but it suredidn’t make the guy look
less
suspicious.
From there, it seemed like the next logical step was to go get a firsthand take on this dude and see what else it might tell me. So I called Angeletti’s studio and made an appointment for the next evening after work. I didn’t even consider identifying myself as FBI. Just the opposite, actually. I used a fake name, Amy Smith, and said this was for my highschool senior portrait. I was just slightly alarmed at how easily the lie slid out of me.
Maybe I was getting a little obsessed. It wouldn’t have been the first time, or the second. Hell, at MIT, obsessive thinking is the kind of thing they give you As for. And I was too curious to stop now.
But of course, we all know what they say about curiosity, right?
Just call me Angela the cat.
CHAPTER 22
PIETRO ANGELETTI’S STUDIO was a storefront in a crappy strip mall in Hingham. The window was etched with PRECIOUS MOMENTS and he had a row of faded school portraits hung in frames across the bottom of the glass. The whole place felt just about as sketchy from the outside as I might have imagined.
An electric bell chimed when I went in.
“Be right there,” a male voice called from theback.
“Take your time,” I answered while I scanned around, looking for a phone, laptop, or anything with an internet connection. I didn’t have a plan, exactly. Just to do what I’d been doing in the field all along: watching and listening.
As I was glancing through one of the brochures by the door, I heard the click of a shutter. I looked up and saw someone, presumably Angeletti, standing bythe partition wall that divided the front from the studio in the back.
“Amy, right?” he asked, lowering the SLR camera he’d been pointing my way.
“That’s me,” I said.
“I always like to start off with a few candids,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
The surprise was how hot he was—nothing like the pornstache-wearing letch I’d been expecting. He was at least six one, with a cultivated shadowof a beard and the kind of shoulders you can’t help noticing.
It made sense, I realized, if he was seducing pretty girls. Which was still just a big
if,
of course. I was out on a limb here and I knew it.
“You said this was a senior portrait?” he asked, coming over to shake my hand. “I would have guessed you were older than that. You don’t look like a high school girl.”
“I get that a lot,” Isaid.
The irony was, he didn’t even know he was right. It was just cheesy flattery to try to make me feel special. I’d been here less than a minute and Pietro was living right up to his own creepy reputation.
“Come on back,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder. The partition behind him was just a flimsy wall with no doors, so I didn’t mind following him to the studio area. I wanted to get afull look around. And besides, I didn’t come completely unprepared.
In the back, he had the usual collection of umbrella lights and a posing area with a collection of backdrops you could pull down from the ceiling. Off to the side was a desk on which I could see a laptop sitting open. Next to
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