Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  The real entry was controlled via a radio-frequency set, installed on the inside wall. When I held down the Unlock button on my car’s key fob, a signal activated the set, which unlocked the office door.

  Once inside, there was the ubiquitous security panel hidden in a spring-loaded drawer under my desk. Of course, I had to hustle to get to it before it transmitted a silent alarm to Bram and Spider, but it hadn’t been a problem yet. I refused to agree to a biometric system, afraid of having my finger or eyeball forcibly separated from my body.

  Spider insisted on my current level of security, following the Johnson case. Maybe it was overkill, but as Joseph Heller wrote, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

  The office phone interrupted my plans to clear pending paperwork from my desk. I turned from an invoice in progress and responded. “AB Investigations. This is Angelina Bonaparte.” I pronounced my surname as a proper Sicilian would: boe-nah-par-tay. You won’t catch me using the Gallicized version that Napoleon adopted in order to impress the French court.

  “Angie, Wukowski. I, uh, wanted to let you know that, uh, if you wanted to get together for maybe a meal or a drink, uh…”

  The hesitation was completely unlike Wukowski. Was he working up to dumping me? Better to know up front. I took a breath to still my thumping heart and purred, “I can think of better things to get together for, caro.”

  After a slight pause, he said, “Yeah, well, me too. But the thing is, with this case still open… ah, hell, Angie, I’m dying to see you, in private, but I think it would be better to wait. Less chance of departmental crapola hitting the fan again.”

  Damn! My visions of a night of passion evaporated like a drop of water sizzling on a sunbaked rock in Death Valley. With a sigh, I said, “I understand. But if the investigation goes longer than twelve days, we’re already past your retirement date, right? Because that’s as long as I plan to wait, Wukowski. You don’t want me pulling you into a broom closet at headquarters, do you?”

  His deep baritone chuckle gave me goose bumps. “That’d be an interesting write-up by Internal Affairs”—emphasis on Affairs—“for sure. And I have no clue how long this case might take, but I promise you that I’m not waiting either. There’s no reason we can’t have a meal or a drink tonight though, maybe talk about the case. I understand you know some of the other owners at the Galleria. I’d sure like your take on the situation and anything you can tell me about them.”

  What a turnaround from the Wukowski I met on the Morano murder case, who questioned my ability to handle an investigation and deliberately kept valuable information from me. With two subsequent homicides involving my PI work behind us, he’d finally accepted my expertise.

  Our long-delayed reunion beckoned, but at least I knew that he felt as frustrated as I did. “That would be lovely, caro. When and where?”

  “Tonight, eight, the Five O’Clock? I’ll be tied up until then. You, me, and Iggy. Strictly business… this time.”

  The Five O’Clock Steakhouse rated very high on Wukowski’s list of favorite restaurants, and its location near MPD headquarters meant that officers working a long shift didn’t have far to go for a meal. But the menu was on the high side.

  “Kind of pricey,” I said.

  “Department’s picking up the check. I okayed it with the captain. Be sure to use the valet parking, moja droga. The neighborhood’s not the best.”

  How I’d missed his Polish endearments, especially when whispered into my ear at special moments. “I will,” I promised.

  After we rang off, I began to plan what to wear that evening. Something that might bring back fond memories but not scandalize Iggy. The silk emerald-green wrap dress with an overlapping neckline that revealed a bit of cleavage and fabric that clung to my curves. That’s the one, I thought, remembering how Wukowski’s eyes lit up when he’d first seen me in it during the course of the Johnson case. We’d been collaborating in an interview that night too. Perfect!

  Chapter 11

  Retrouvaille (n.), the joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation.

  Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary

  The dimly lit interior of the Five O’Clock Steakhouse evoked a romantic setting, but both Wukowski and Iggy looked grim as I approached the table. I greeted them with a smile and a warm hi, forgoing a kiss with Wukowski, who didn’t step forward after he rose. After all, he’d warned me that this would be a working meeting.

  Coffee cups sat at their places, but I ordered a glass of white zin and turned to Iggy. “How are Marianne and the kids?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “Hard to know. I barely see them these days. Retirement’s looking mighty good right now.”

  Iggy could’ve pulled the plug earlier but chose to stick around because of Wukowski’s eligibility date. At the time of the MPD separation decree, Iggy confided that he held concerns about Wukowski’s ability to adapt to a new partner while dealing with the enforced loss of our relationship, so he’d hung on. I loved him for that and for his commitment to his family.

  We ordered our meals, and Wukowski opened the conversation. “Forensics found very little. A nine-millimeter shell in the brain box. One dark hair that didn’t match Swanson’s microscopically, but it had no root, so no opportunity for DNA there. We might send it to the FBI lab for mitochondrial analysis if nothing else turns up after we get results from DNA analysis of the blood at the scene.”

  During the investigation that led to the conviction of the Bike Trail killer—so dubbed by the media for the person who assaulted and killed women on trails and in parks—the deciding factor in bringing the man to justice was a hair follicle with no root. Mitochondrial DNA, inherited only from the mother and available in the hair itself, and innovative use of publicly open family ancestry websites by the FBI, finally ended the murder spree.

  “What about the knife in Mick’s hand?” I asked. “Surely it wasn’t his blood on it.”

  “Preliminary tests say it was.” Iggy’s voice held more than a trace of frustration. “Could be that, during the struggle, the killer grabbed his hand and cut him with his own weapon. That’s where we found the hair.”

  “We’re tracing Mick’s background,” Wukowski said. “No luck locating family so far. He’s almost a cipher, there’s so little history attached to the man.”

  “And the blood trail on the floor?” I asked them. “Any reason the killer should have dragged Mick while he was still bleeding?”

  Wukowski shook his head. “None we can come up with based on forensics or even supposition, for that matter.” He leaned forward and gave me an intense look, his eyes drifting down for a brief moment. “You’re looking really good, Angie. I remember the… dress.”

  Ah. Does he also remember how easily it comes off, thanks to the wrap style? I flushed.

  Iggy broke in. “I’m not that easy to embarrass, but you two are about to make me blush.” He pulled a notepad from his suit pocket. “How ’bout we stick to business.”

  Wukowski grinned and looked away. “Good idea,” he said. “So, Angie, tell us about the Galleria. Let’s start with Swanson.”

  “A quiet man,” I said. “Almost curt, but I don’t think he intended to be. Very intense about his work. I got the impression that he invested a lot into the shop and had little time for a private life. He was truly gifted when it came to metal art and designed the panels for me after just a brief conversation. Despite his fairly taciturn exterior, we hit it off. I like… liked him.”

  “Did you get any background on him during your dealings?”

  “No, he never shared anything personal. He had the tiniest trace of an accent, and I once asked if he was Irish. Based on his name, not on his speech. He just shook his head and moved on, so I dropped it. Maybe the other owners know more, given that they worked together.”

  Iggy looked up. “Debby Hill. Know much about her?”

  “She owns the fabric arts shop, A Crossing of Threads. In
fact, I bought the piece that hangs in my living room from her. She’s very talented and a truly nice woman. My daughter Emma is a close friend of hers.” I paused. “Debby strikes me as a kind, comforting presence and a woman who truly loves her art. If you’ll take some advice, Debby is fragile. Emma tells me she got out of an abusive situation before relocating to Milwaukee. Go easy on her. If you press too hard, she might fall apart or simply shut down.”

  “Good to know,” Iggy said. “That’s helpful. Ted and I don’t read people like you do.”

  “There are metal grommets embedded in that piece, aren’t there?” Wukowski asked.

  “Yes. Decorative ones, made from copper and brass. She told me that Mick fabricated them. That’s one reason I commissioned the panels from him. I loved the elegant design of the grommets.”

  “So they worked together,” Iggy said. “Amicably?”

  “As far as I know,” I said. “At least Debby never brought up any issues with him.” I paused before adding, “Mick owned the anchor shop. His decisions held sway over all the others.”

  “He also owned the entire galleria,” Wukowski said.

  “That reminds me. At the Christmas open house, I overheard snippets of conversation about lighting and advertising. It seemed as if the other owners disagreed with some of the decisions in that regard, but no one mentioned Mick by name. Certainly not Debby.”

  “What about the other owners?” Iggy asked. “Know much about them?”

  “Well, since I like buying local and the shops feature one-of-a-kind items, I’ve patronized them.” I ticked off names. “Roy Ballard owns Wood Matters. Back in the day, we would’ve called him a hippie. Young, talented. Quite the punster.” A second finger came up. “Margaret Kowalski owns The Jewel Box. Her work is exquisite, featuring Wisconsin woods, leaves, and stones in the jewelry. Don’t be fooled by her matronly appearance. She takes no nonsense and she, as well as Debby, hates to be termed a crafter or craftsperson. They’re artists.”

  Iggy scribbled furiously as I spoke. “Got it,” he said.

  Raising another digit, I continued. “Pottery and Arts of Mexico is Lucas Medina’s place. He imports genuine Mexican crafts from villages in the area where he grew up and sends a good chunk of the profits back to support schools and microbusinesses there. I admire him.” I lowered my hand. “That’s the whole lot at the Galleria. And none of them strikes me as a killer.”

  “Killers seldom do,” Wukowski said. “That’s the problem.”

  Our meals arrived, and we tucked in with gusto. The men’s rib eyes dwarfed my petite filet, but we all managed to clean our plates. Wukowski settled the check and I watched, waiting for a signal that we would get some time alone. At the door, he waved the valet away and I retrieved my keys and wished Iggy a good night.

  The valet parking lot was a short block away. Once out of sight of the restaurant, Wukowski pulled me into a doorway and into his arms. “I’ve been waiting to do this all day. Hell, all year,” he softly growled. The kiss turned explosive within seconds, but a couple walking past forced us to pull apart.

  “My place?” I asked as I caressed his neck, breathing in the woodsy-citrusy scent he favored. God, I’d missed the smell of him!

  “Can’t.” He sighed. “My plate’s so full at work that I might as well get a researcher in China to clone me. Only way I’ll ever clear my caseload.”

  “We could, uh, take a short ride to the lakefront and find a quiet spot.”

  “They’re all under camera surveillance these days, moja droga. So’s the restaurant parking lot.” He took my hand, and we resumed the stroll to the car. “Sorry I started something I can’t finish, Angie. Really sorry.”

  “I bet you are,” I said with a genteel snort. “Wrap this case up fast, okay?”

  “Speed of light,” he assured me as we approached the roadster.

  I stood on tiptoes and pulled his face down for a chaste kiss. “Be careful, caro.”

  “Will do. And you.”

  “And me,” I promised.

  As I drove home to my condo and my lonely bedroom, I sighed. Maybe the embargo on our being together had been lifted, but Wukowski’s insistence on professional distance was just as bad. My body ached. How long would it take to find Mick Swanson’s killer?

  Chapter 12

  We are like a judge confronted by a defendant who declines to answer, and we must determine the truth from the circumstantial evidence.

  Alfred Wegener

  It was a portent of problems when Spider Mulcahey called on my home phone the next morning. He was incredibly tuned into security—small wonder, given that he owned a security company and also did occasional sub-rosa work for the government—so a call on my landline rather than on a cell phone or via a text raised my level of concern.

  “Spider,” I said, “good to hear from you. How are Magdalena, Joey, and the twins? Their one-year birthday party still makes me smile when I remember it.” Gabriella and Daniel had exchanged looks and performed simultaneous face-plants into their smash cakes as if coordinating a rocket launch.

  “We’re all good, Angie, if a bit tired. No one told Magda and me that three would be eight times the work of one.”

  “I can only imagine,” I said.

  His voice deepened. “The images you sent yesterday,” he began. “I have pretty significant findings. Need to meet in person with you, Bram, and Bobbie. Can you set that up for later today?”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “Intentionally.”

  His clipped speech pattern indicated tension. I checked the online office calendar. “I’m not sure about Bram, but Bobbie and I are free after one o’clock.”

  “No worries. Bram and I will be at your office at one thirty. Meanwhile, watch your back.” Click.

  ***

  I was surprised to see Bobbie in the office when I arrived. “I thought you’d be at the plant this morning.” I gave him a quick once-over. “Very casual GQ look,” I told him, appreciating his taper-cut dark jeans and mustard-yellow camp shirt.

  “You’re looking good too. Love that shade of blue on you. Doesn’t often work with a Mediterranean complexion.”

  “There’s some Scandinavian in my mom’s family,” I said. “I apparently got Papa’s dark hair and eyes and undertones of Mom’s peaches-and-cream skin.” I barely remembered my mother, who died from complications of the flu when I was little. Papa didn’t talk about her much. He still held a lot of grief over losing her, but Sicilian men don’t expose their vulnerable sides.

  “You’re in pretty early,” I added. “And despite how well you’re turned out, you look tired.” I decided to postpone a discussion about Spider’s findings. “What’s up?”

  His eyes sparkled as he said, “I wrapped up the plant theft last night and wanted to get my notes in order before I write the final report.”

  Bobbie’s case involved theft from a local small brewery, one that was larger than a micro and shipped its product via internet orders. “Good work,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

  “You remember how the owner was getting a steady stream of complaints that the shipments were light by a bottle or two? And he couldn’t pin it down to a packing defect?”

  I nodded.

  “The losses added up, especially since they’d send a free case to keep the customer happy. At first I figured the workers were helping themselves to a brewski on the job, but the security cameras in the building eliminated that. So last night, I paid a security guard in a building that faces the brewery parking lot to let me use an upstairs room for surveillance. Second shift ended and the crew piled into their cars and left. Except for one guy, who paced around with a cell phone to his ear. I think, good that he’s not driving and talking, right?”

  “True,” I said.

  “He wasn’t concerned with road safety, Ange. About five minutes after the lot cleared, he shoved the phone into his pants and popped the trunk of his SUV. I had a video camera aimed at the lot, just in case, so I ca
ught him removing a quilted jacket. He goes from verging on obese to skinny as hell. And he proceeds to take beer bottles out of pockets sewn into the inside of the jacket. Six altogether. Enough to account for the small but steady inventory losses. Either he’s selling it or he’s supplying his friends, or he’s stocking up at home for a dry spell.”

  “It’s going to be a heck of a dry spell, considering the company is out more than the twenty-five hundred that constitutes a felony in Wisconsin. He better drink up quickly.” I gave Bobbie a high five. “Smart of you to set up the overwatch that way. Very nice work.”

  He beamed. “I thought so too. And it’ll augment our revenue stream.”

  “It will indeed.” Bobbie’s business acumen, once sadly lacking, had definitely jumped to a higher level when he’d become an associate, with profit-sharing.

  We clinked cups, me with my usual a.m. Starbucks and Bobbie with a mug of tea. “No java?” I asked.

  “I want to get some sleep this afternoon. Steve and I have tickets for Abba at the Pabst.”

  “That should be a great night, and I’m happy to let you off the hook this afternoon. Spider and Bram are arriving at one thirty. Spider went all stealth on me this morning and refused to divulge what he found about the photos.”

  “I’ll stay. I can’t miss that, and three hours of sleep will do me.”

  Ah, youth!

  ***

  Bram strode in on the dot of one thirty, with Spider at his back. After a glance down the hallway, Spider locked the office door and said, “Let’s talk in the conference room.”

  We obediently trooped in and settled at the table. “Spider,” I said, “what have you got? I admit to a sense of alarm since we talked this morning.”

  He unzipped a leather portfolio, removed four folders, and handed them out. “Okay,” he said, “this may be nothing, or it may be very serious. Let’s err on the side of serious.” The top page was an image of the knife in Mick’s hand. “See the engraving on the knife?” He flipped to the next page, where it was enlarged and brightened so that the letters contrasted more sharply with the actual blade. A red arrow pointed to a word. “Cyrillic alphabet. Used in Russia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Ukraine. It’s pronounced ‘kor-shun’ and means ‘kite.’ Very popular with the Russian military and FSB—one of the successors to the KGB. Putin carries a Korshun.”