Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  After a trip to a stall, I washed my hands. Still damp, I ran them lightly through my hair. Wukowski had liked to ruffle my former short spikes. I hoped the new style would appeal to him. I applied lipstick and headed back to wait.

  Chapter 6

  Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.

  Joseph Campbell

  A bit after eight, the conference room door opened and I swung around to face Captain Salina Cortés of Internal Affairs. Even though I knew the orders had come from higher up, she would be forever etched on my mind as the one responsible for mandating the involuntary separation of me from the man I loved.

  “Ms. Bonaparte,” she intoned, “before Detectives Wukowski and Ignowski return, I’d like to talk with you.” The hesitancy in her voice told me that she clearly recalled our encounter of nine hundred and forty-eight days ago, although I doubted she’d been counting. “Unless you feel you need legal representation.”

  “I’ll let you know if the conversation turns in that direction,” I said.

  After seating herself opposite me, she folded her hands on the table and leaned forward, earnestness evident in her face and body. “First, I apologize again for the circumstances that dictated Detective Wukowski sever your relationship.”

  “Oh, he didn’t sever it,” I purred. “He just postponed it. For two years, seven months and fourteen days. Twelve to go, Captain Cortés.”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes. As to that.” With a deep exhale, she said, “We have a situation.”

  “We?”

  “The MPD. You see, there’s a serious shortage of qualified homicide personnel at present.”

  “So I heard from Wukowski this morning.”

  “And,” she continued, “we can’t easily reassign our few remaining personnel to accommodate the, um, the agreement reached with Detective Wukowski concerning yourself.”

  I kept silent, enjoying the way she squirmed in her chair.

  “So I need to know how you are involved in this recent homicide.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m involved, Captain. I knew the victim on a professional level, as an artist from whom I bought three metal panels. I was there this morning to pick them up, and my friends and I came across his body in his shop.”

  “And you never socialized with Mr. Swanson?”

  “I ran into him at the galleria’s annual customer appreciation get-together. One of the other shop owners invited me. That’s when I met Mick and got the idea to order the metal artwork that I plan to hang in my bedroom. A surprise for Wukowski. You know, once he retires and is free to associate with whomever he chooses.”

  With a cut of her right hand, she said, “Okay. I get that you’re angry about the situation with Detective Wukowski, and I don’t blame you. Can we set that aside for the purposes of this discussion?”

  “Maybe if I knew what this discussion was actually about.” I crossed my arms and leaned back.

  “I’ve convinced the deputy chief that we need to let Detective Wukowski off the hook on that non-association contract. I plan to ask him to reconsider his retirement plans or at least extend the date. But I must be able to assure my superiors that there is no risk of his becoming entangled in an organized crime scenario.”

  I snorted. “The only entanglement of that sort was when persons who owed my father provided information that helped the MPD close a case.” Then the implication that I’d engaged in an “organized crime scenario” made my Sicilian American blood boil, and I slapped my hands on the surface of the table that separated us. “Because neither Wukowski nor I would allow that to happen. I hope that’s clear.” God help us if this murder did involve the Family, but I wasn’t going to bring it up.

  “Eminently. And I honestly never thought so, but I was pressured by those above me. Who are, incidentally, no longer part of the MPD. Based on your assurances, I will release Detective Wukowski from the restrictions placed on him. He is free to engage with you, but for the sake of the investigation, I hope that you will be circumspect until this case is closed.” She rose and rounded the table, her hand outstretched. “Paz?”

  “Peace,” I agreed as I stood and we shook.

  ***

  At 9:08 by my phone, Wukowski and Iggy arrived. The officer at the back gave Wukowski a wave and handed him a folded sheet of paper, which he read at his desk and then showed to Iggy. Big grins split both their faces as they turned to look at me. Iggy made a thumbs-up gesture and ambled into the captain’s office to interview Bram York.

  Wukowski stuck his head in the door and passed me the note. “I’ll talk to Bobbie and then come back to you, if that’s okay. I think we have more to discuss than just this case, moja miłość.” He gently closed the door.

  I slumped back into the chair and let out a long, shaky breath, suddenly aware that a simple Polish phrase—my love—had dissipated the tension of this odd reunion. All those days and nights of wondering if he were still mine faded into a deep sense of the rightness of things. I opened the note and read:

  Detective Wukowski

  Upon my recommendation and with the unreserved concurrence of Deputy Chief O’Reilly, the restrictions upon your association with Ms. Bonaparte are hereby lifted with a finding of no probable cause. I realize the workload you are shouldering in the absence of your colleagues in Homicide but would like thirty minutes of your time once you have completed initial interviews with the persons who were present at this morning’s homicide scene.

  Captain Salina Cortés, Internal Affairs

  Only the fear of being caught on video or by the officer’s cell phone prevented me from dancing a giga.

  Chapter 7

  How much of human life is lost in waiting.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Ninety minutes later, Wukowski returned. I saw at once that he had his homicide detective face on. Sitting across from me, he placed a small recording device on the table. “This is killing me, Ange, but we have to do it by the book. Okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But later? At my place? Can we improvise then?”

  He scraped his hand over his face. “Not sure. You know how the first few hours go.”

  I nodded and gestured for him to proceed.

  He recorded the usual preamble and asked the usual questions—what time did we arrive, why were we there, how did we find the body? Then he said, “Do you know of anyone with reason to wish Mr. Swanson harm?”

  “I barely knew Mick, Detective. He seemed like a good guy though. Very helpful when I worked with him on the… on a project.”

  “What kind of project?”

  “Oh, just some metalwork I commissioned for the condo.”

  With that, he terminated the recording and leaned back. “It’s real good to see you, Angie. Real good. I like the hair.” His brown eyes held a hint of sexual awareness. “What’s under the casual clothes, moja droga?”

  My dear. How could two little words cause such a delicious sensation to prickle up and down my spine? And how nice that he still enjoyed the game of ‘what set of sexy lingerie is she wearing today?’ I certainly wanted to play along! “I could tell you, caro, but that would spoil the fun of unwrapping the package.”

  His lopsided Han Solo smile flashed for a second. Then he stood. “Wish I could hug you goodbye, but that might reactivate old concerns in the department. I’ll call you later.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  Chapter 8

  There is nothing as deceptive as an obvious fact.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Bobbie and Bram stood at the end of the hallway, waiting for me. “Ange,” Bobbie asked, “everything okay? I mean, with you and Wukowski?” He gave me a cheeky grin.

  “It seems like it,” I said. “Although I doubt that he’ll have a free moment in the near future. You know what they say about the first forty-eight hours. If you don’t get a clue then, the odds of solving the case are cut in half.”

  “Too bad,” Bobbie said
as we sauntered to the elevator. “I was hoping to see that satisfied-woman smile on your face tomorrow.”

  Bram turned a stern face to the younger man. “Out of line,” he said.

  Time to intervene. “I’m starving,” I told the men. “Let’s head to Ma Fischer’s for that breakfast I promised you.” The eastside eatery and after-hours institution began life as a tiny two-booths-and-a-counter joint but evolved into a thriving Greek family restaurant with a parking lot—a big plus for any business in the crowded older part of town.

  Since Bram’s truck still sat at the crime scene, Bobbie called for an Uber ride, and we hit the midmorning lull at Ma’s. George, who used to man the grill in the little start-up, approached with menus. He focused on me. “So, still no policeman?”

  Did the entire city know about my enforced absence from Wukowski? “Not yet, George, but soon.”

  “Is good.” He escorted us to an isolated table, grabbed a carafe of coffee from a nearby station, and filled our cups. I felt particularly honored by his attention, given that he was now a prosperous owner who normally delegated such tasks to staff.

  A server took our orders and left our quiet corner.

  “Bobbie,” I said, “I got your photo of the desk calendar while I was waiting for Wukowski to conduct his interview with me. Anything else you noticed in the office or shop?”

  He shook his head.

  “Any thoughts on the tattoo?” I asked. “Is it a star?”

  “Starshina, with the revolutionary symbol of a hammer and sickle in the middle,” Bram pronounced. “A Russian military insignia that was used in the old days for a rank equivalent to a US sergeant major.”

  Bobbie angled toward me. “Mick didn’t sound like a Russian to me.”

  “From his name and his looks and that little hint of an accent, I always assumed he had Irish roots,” I told the men.

  “There’s somethin’ else you should know,” Bram said. “I ran a quick recon on the premises. No security surveillance of any kind, but very high-tech locks. Almost impossible to pick or force. And the windows… not sure, but they struck me as being bullet-resistant. Spider would know.”

  “So Mick was expecting some sort of attack,” I mused.

  “Too bad his precautions didn’t help him survive,” Bobbie said.

  Our food arrived and we tucked in, hungry despite the circumstances of the morning. Bram finished his stack of pancakes and extra sausage and leaned back with a satisfied look on his face.

  “My natural curiosity is begging me to start digging,” I told the men, “but I don’t see any real reason to get involved in this. Do you, Bobbie?”

  “Well, since you ask, no. Not until there’s a client. I say we should tell Wukowski about the starshina and its military connection, though, once we hear from Spider.”

  Bram hummed under his breath. “I agree. We’ll turn it over to Wukowski by tomorrow morning at the latest.” He lifted his coffee mug and sipped. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  I hated holding out on Wukowksi, but Bram’s instincts were sound. “Agreed,” I said. “I’ll call for another Uber to get us all to my condo. Bobbie’s car is on the street there. Bram, do you still have the PT Cruiser?”

  “I do,” he said, “but I don’t use it much, now that my knee’s healed. It was a temporary accommodation, but the Cruiser'll do me fine for now.”

  Bram’s injury was service-related, but he never shared the details. “Okay if you drop Bram off at his place, Bobbie? I need a shower and a change of clothes before I head into the office.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll leave from Bram’s for surveillance on that security issue. I’m dressed just fine to blend in at the plant.”

  Chapter 9

  In family life, love is the oil that eases friction.

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  I placed a short call to my son to let him know that I would likely be mentioned on the news as having found a body.

  “Another one, Mom? You’re turning into Jessica Fletcher. Bodies everywhere you go.”

  “I’m considerably younger than Angela Lansbury, David. And it’s been two years, seven months, and two days since I was involved with a murder investigation.”

  “But who’s counting, right?” After a pause, he said, “Mom, is Wukowski on this case?”

  “Yep. He drew the short straw. Or rather, he and Iggy were the only two around when the call came in.”

  “What does this mean for the two of you?”

  “Well, the department decided to shorten our relationship embargo by twelve days, so we can, uh, interact. On the case.”

  “Right. On the case.” With a sigh, he added, “I suppose it’s useless to advise you to stay away from him.”

  “David! I thought you liked Wukowski.”

  “I do like him. But I haven’t liked watching you wait and mope… and yeah, I know you tried to hide it, but you were pretty depressed for a while. What if this case veers into Nonno’s business? Will Wukowski have to cut you off again?”

  It was like my son to feel protective of me, and I appreciated his caring. Time to deflect it though. “The murder victim was a metal artist. I doubt he had ties to the Family.” Not like Papa’s Mafia ties, ties that forced Wukowski and me apart.

  “Just watch yourself, Mom. Don’t jump in with both feet. The water might be over your head, you know. Hang on a sec.” After a few whispers, David said, “Elaine says it’s been too long since you came to supper. And the boys would love to see you too. The little demons have a new basketball hoop, so dress for some b-ball. They’ll take advantage of being taller than you.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I lamented. We set a date for a couple of weeks out, and I assured him that I’d be careful and keep him informed. “Ti amo, figlio,” I said.

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  ***

  Unlike David, my daughter Emma harbored no illusions about controlling her mother. When faced with what she termed an “escapade,” she generally chuckled and clucked and got on with things. I liked that she trusted me to manage my own life.

  “Omigosh, Mom, that’s awful,” she responded to my explanation of the morning’s events. “And to have it happen at the Galleria. I’ll have to call Debby.” Emma’s friend owned a shop there.

  “You might want to hold off. I’m sure the area is crawling with police and everyone is being interviewed.”

  “Right. I’ll just text her to let me know if she needs anything.”

  ***

  The last call would be the hardest. I may be an independent woman in her fifties, a business owner, and the proud holder of a master’s degree, but I’m also the daughter of a Sicilian father. Papa doesn’t think my job as a PI is proper work for a woman. Not that he thinks women are incapable, but his only child should not put herself in harm’s way.

  It went about as well as expected.

  “Angelina, you cannot be involved in another murder case. My heart cannot stand the strain.”

  Papa had been using his heart blockage from a year ago to control me, Aunt Terry, David, and Emma with guilt. “Oh dear,” I said, my voice dripping with false alarm, “have you had a bad check-up? You haven’t started smoking your pipe again, have you, Papa?”

  “No and no.” I heard his hoarse whisper of “More’s the pity” before he added, “This is about you, not me.”

  “I understand your concern, Papa, but we simply happened upon the scene, and we could hardly leave once we saw a body.”

  “Humph. And Wukowski is managing the case? At least he understands that a dangerous situation is no place for you. Not again.”

  I promised to be careful, thinking there was really no need for me to take special precautions. After all, the killer had no idea any of us were there.

  Chapter 10

  The habit of eternal vigilance and diligence, rarely fails to bring a substantial reward.

  Lewis Howard Latimer

  My steam shower called to me and I ans
wered gladly, letting it wash away the taint of the morning—a blood taint which, though it hadn’t touched me, had nevertheless contaminated me. I stepped out feeling clean again and proceeded to follow my post-ablution ritual: creams for face, décolletage, body, hands and feet; mousse for my hair, followed by a blow-out; and then the selection of clothes.

  My walk-in closet was a former guest room, remodeled to allow access from the master and to hold my clothes, shoes, bags, and lingerie. It was the last that appealed most, to me and to Wukowski. A lady can look professional on the outside without sacrificing sexiness underneath.

  It took me a few minutes to find the right bra and panties for the day and any eventuality after that. I chose an ice-blue set with screaming magenta flat braiding. It echoed my mood—ready to work and, later, to play. I topped it with a muted plaid coatdress over sheer thigh-high stockings, grabbed navy heels and a handwoven red raffia purse, and slung my briefcase over my shoulder.

  Forty-five minutes later, coasting along Lake Drive with the Roadster’s top down, I savored the autumn weather. Milwaukee winters are bitter and the springs are almost nonexistent, while the summer heat and humidity can wilt a tri-athlete. But autumn makes up for it with brisk winds and perfect temps, only requiring a jacket in the evening. I loved days like these, with the wind ruffling my hair. I loved the short drive to my office.

  When I first set up my business, after a nasty divorce from my cheating husband of twenty-five years, I’d deliberately chosen a building with no lobby security or cameras. People who need a PI don’t always want their actions recorded. My security is top notch, however, thanks to Spider Mulcahey and his ultra-high-tech expertise.

  I extracted a magnetic card from my purse and approached the office door, its bullet-resistant, glass-clad polycarbonate lettered with AB INVESTIGATIONS and, underneath, ANGELINA BONAPARTE, SENIOR INVESTIGATOR, followed by BOBBIE RUSSELL, ASSOCIATE INVESTIGATOR.

  The card reader mounted on the wall was a decoy. Although pressing the card to the reader produced a click, it didn’t unlock the door. If someone wanted to maliciously enter the office, either by stealing the card or forcing me to use it, that someone would be disappointed. I could always feign shock at the reader’s malfunction.