Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  Before leaving, I decided to visit the powder room. From the other end of the hall, I heard Papa invite Wukowski for our traditional Sunday family meal—spaghetti Bolognese, salad, garlic bread, and dessert. “Bring your mama,” Papa added.

  “We’re so damn short-handed, Pat, that I really can’t make a commitment. Can I take a rain check? I’ll let you know as soon as an open Sunday finally appears on my schedule.”

  “Bene!”

  The sound of running water and flushing drowned out the rest of their conversation. I exited the half bath to find Wukowski gone and Papa watching me with a Cheshire cat grin. He would stonewall if I asked what that was about, so I simply kissed his cheek and headed out the door. Sicilian fathers never stop protecting their daughters, and that can include plotting.

  Chapter 30

  We only kill each other.

  Mobster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel

  We got no joy at the bank. There were no safe deposit boxes for either Michael L. Swanson or Mikhail Lebedev. The trip was not entirely wasted, since Debby was able to look over Mick’s accounts—personal, Galleria, and Metal Works—and meet his, now her, designated banking representative. It pays to have a big balance, I thought.

  Wukowski asked us to remain in the conference room after the rep left. “Before we separate,” he said, his face grim, “there's something you need to know. Iggy called me while you were conferring with the bank guy. A man from Franken’s office building was found dead in the parking garage this morning, during a routine check. Preliminary results indicate he was killed on the night of the attack on Franken. Choked out, larynx crushed.”

  “Oh no,” Debby moaned.

  “Do you think it’s related to the attack on Rebecca?” I asked, my mind reeling.

  “I do,” he said, his voice flat. “No ID on the victim, but the lobby guard recognized him. An accountant. Works in the same tower as Franken. The lobby visitor log didn’t show anyone signed in after hours, so whoever attacked Franken got access to the building another way. The accountant provides the most obvious method.”

  “But… why kill him? Why not just knock him out?”

  “Expediency,” Wukowski said. “The perp couldn’t know how long he’d be with Franken. What if the guy woke up and raised the alarm?”

  Beside me, Debby began to quietly weep. My own throat tightened, but I breathed deep and looked across at Wukowski’s stone face, knowing that maintaining his composure in the face of such senseless violence was his way of asserting control over the event.

  Wukowski said, “Back to the safe house for you, Miss Hill. And Angie—”

  I interrupted him. “I’ll be careful.”

  Chapter 31

  I find that the harder I work, the more success I seem to have.

  Thomas Jefferson

  The office was empty and quiet when I arrived. Bobbie’s partner, fashion buyer Steve Marshall, had referred a local designer to us to determine how his current collection was being leaked, piece by piece, to a knock-off company overseas. From beer to designer clothing, I thought. Ridiculous, Sublime. With the Swanson case wrapped up, I felt at loose ends and wished Bobbie were here to engage in a postmortem.

  While the computer booted up, I sorted through the mail that I’d retrieved from my rented box at a private service center. It afforded me a level of security that the building’s boxes could not, and the service accepts packages twenty-four seven, so it’s also more convenient. The junk mail went into a bin for shredding. Call me paranoid, but a dedicated snoop can learn a lot about a person from junk mail. I should know.

  A small business like mine has to pay attention to cash flow or go under. I prepared the invoice related to Bobbie’s successful discovery of the thief at the brewery, happy to see that he’d practiced all the rules concerning proper documentation. Two requests for background checks—the bread and butter of my business—awaited my attention. The first, from a private school asking me to vet a potential teacher, required extra time and effort. I refused to rush when it involved a child’s welfare. The other, from the microbrewery that Bobbie recently helped, could be pumped out more quickly since they only wanted verification of a candidate’s resume.

  I prepared a cup of coffee and settled in to work but found my mind repeatedly being drawn back to the case over the course of the afternoon. What drove a man like Artur to commit multiple murders?

  A Google search quickly schooled me on the difference between a serial killer, driven by overwhelming emotion, and a contract killer, in it for the money and without compulsion to kill. But which was Artur? I doubted I could ever get into the head of a man like him, and I didn't truly want to. With a sigh, I returned to the business at hand.

  At the close of day, I’d completed the two background checks, prepared invoices, and compiled my notes on the Swanson case. Bundling up the envelopes, I headed for the post office drop box.

  My family would gather at Papa’s table tomorrow for our traditional Sunday meal. On the way home, I stopped to purchase Italian bread from Sciortino’s Bakery, the best in the city, bar none. My other offering, a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, nicely complemented Papa’s red sauce.

  Once at home and comfortable in sleep pants and a cotton T-shirt, I settled on the couch, lights off, and looked out over Lake Michigan. There was no escaping the reality of death. Not even galaxies, planets and stars survived forever. Nor did people. Melancholy pressed on my chest. Before it could overtake me, I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the cushion, focusing on my breath for several minutes. Buddha’s wise words floated into my consciousness: Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.

  Straightening my shoulders, I pushed the mood away with determination and raised my cup of herbal tea to Mick. I pictured the hard-working man with a big heart and heard his plea for me to bring his murderer to justice. “I’ll do my best, Mick,” I told him.

  Chapter 32

  You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.

  John Bunyan

  After my usual breakfast of yogurt, fruit, and coffee, I placed a call to Spider Mulcahey.

  “Angie,” he said in his clipped cadence, “what’s up?”

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid.” I told him of the murder of Stephen Carmody for a building access card.

  Following a low whistle, Spider said, “That certainly confirms that we're dealing with a stone-cold killer.” After a pause punctuated by the sound of keyboard clicks, he added, “Y’know, the International Criminal Court only prosecuted two people for atrocities committed during the Second Chechen War. Most Russian military was shielded by the government. If there was evidence against Swanson or Hunter, it’s been disappeared, as they say. Still, I can do some digging.”

  “Yes,” I told him, “please do. I’m particularly interested in how Mick came to the US and whether there any crimes tied to him here.”

  “How about we have a meeting at the farmhouse this afternoon? You, me, Bram, Bobbie. I’ll have data by then. Say two o’clock?”

  “It’s the weekly Sunday meal at Papa’s, so I can’t be there until six or so. Will that work?”

  “Sure thing. Can’t come between you and the family… not to mention the meal. Text me when you’re leaving.”

  “Thanks for that. And please keep track of your hours and submit an invoice. Mick’s attorney assures me there’s plenty of money to cover any investigative expenses.”

  “Got it. One question—has the lawyer retained you?”

  “No, I’m working for Debby Hill, Mick’s heir and executor.”

  “Well”—he drew the word out—“we might uncover something that Ms. Hill wants to keep quiet. I won’t withhold evidence of criminal activity, mind you, but what if the funds have a shady background? If you’re working for an attorney—”

  “—I’d be covered under attorney-client privilege. Let me talk to Franken, Spider. If sh
e’s unwilling, I can always approach Bart Matthews.” The second irony, of asking a Mafia lawyer to represent a client in a Bratva-related matter, wasn’t lost on me, but I doubted it would bother Bart. His allegiance wouldn’t be with a competing criminal organization. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  ***

  Rebecca was firm but polite in her refusal to take Debby on as a client. “To be honest, Angie, I’m exploring retirement. I have enough to live comfortably, and this incident has forced me to look at what’s really important. And it isn’t work.”

  Her voice sounded strong, which reassured me that she was making a good recovery. “That’s completely understandable,” I told her.

  “There’s another issue,” she said. “A court would likely rule that Debby was never my client, given that I’m unable to take on new work at this time. The district attorney’s office could easily challenge your protection as my agent in this matter, should it come to that.” With a small exhale, she added, “Unfortunately, I don’t want to recommend another attorney and possibly put them in this maniac’s line of fire.”

  “I have another legal option,” I said, “but I didn’t want to bypass you, given your involvement so far. I appreciate your candor, Rebecca.”

  “Uh, I wonder…”

  I waited a moment, but when she didn’t continue, I went into a soothing mom voice and said, “Something I can help with?”

  “I truly enjoy your family, Angie, and they’ve been very gracious about my staying here. But I’m feeling much better and think it’s time to return home. The problem is, well, I feel unsafe, even a little scared. What do you think? Is it premature to get back to normal? Or at least a new normal, since I’m exploring selling the law practice.”

  “There’s something you need to know, Rebecca, and I suspect it will shock you as deeply as it did me.” I told her of the discovery of Stephen Carmody’s body in the parking garage.

  “I didn’t know him, but… somehow I feel a sense of responsibility since the killer was there to get into my office.”

  “There’s only one person responsible for that terrible act, and it isn’t you,” I assured her, “but if you want to help, you can always make a donation in his name, once the obituary is published.”

  “I’ll do that,” she asserted with a sharp nod of her head, followed by an almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles of her face.

  The headache must be fading. "Detective Wukowski asked Debby to wait things out at the safe house, and I think you should do the same here.” After several moments of silence, I asked, “Is that okay?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I was only thinking… Well, do you know someone who can advise me about security at my home? I’d pay, of course.”

  “I do, indeed,” I said. “Spider Mulcahey—”

  Her brows rose at the name.

  “—whose real name is Leonard, by the way, runs a security company. He’s not the cheapest, but he is certainly the best. I could ask him to check out the house before you move back in, if you’d like, and have him call or meet you with recommendations.”

  “Perfect.” Her voice resumed its normal in-charge tone. “I’ll give you house keys when you come over later for supper so he can get inside. And I have to say, Angie, that in this matter, I’d be lost without all you’ve done. There’s no way I can ever thank you enough.”

  “Ever see the movie Pay It Forward?”

  “Years ago.”

  “That would be thanks enough. For now, please just rest. You’ll need stamina for my family’s weekly pasta fest.”

  Chapter 33

  Italians love sun, sin, and spaghetti.

  Lady Randolph Churchill

  Papa stood at the stove, his spare frame wrapped in a white chef’s apron to protect his clothing from splashes of sauce. I set the bread and wine on the counter and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Smells wonderful as always, Papa.”

  “I’m not sure if there’s enough garlic. Taste it for me.”

  I smiled to myself at the concern he evinced with every batch of Bolognese and reached for the teaspoon. “I’d say it’s darn perfect.”

  “Bene,” he said, giving the pot a stir and replacing the lid. Lifting the apron over his head, he hung it on the hook next to the stove and turned to me. “You are well, Angelina?”

  Uh-oh. Full first name. I resisted rolling my eyes at the impending lecture. “Of course, Papa.”

  “And Ted?”

  Ah, no reprimand. He was worried about Wukowski bowing out of the family dinner. “He’s up to his eyeballs in work but otherwise fine.”

  With a sharp nod, he said, “Perhaps things will ease off and he and his mama can sit down with us next Sunday.”

  “That would be wonderful, but I’m not counting on anything right now. Homicide is very short-staffed, and Wukowski and Iggy are working extra hours on top of their already outrageous caseload.”

  He patted my cheek and ambled into the family room, where a Packers game was in progress on the big-screen TV.

  Turning back to Aunt Terry, who was preparing antipasto at the counter, I asked, “How are things going? Is Papa making you crazy? Are you ready to hightail it to your apartment?”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Actually, he’s been fine. I think he enjoys sparring with Rebecca, which gives me a break.”

  “I hope she gives as good as she gets,” I said.

  “Count on it.”

  Hearing shouts from the crowd, I made my way to the family room. My son David’s twin boys were sprawled on the carpet, immersed in a vicious game of Connect 4. They greeted me with their typical impish smiles and, at David’s prompting, rose to hug me. Fourteen now, they towered over me. “Are you two being-have?” I asked, referring to their childhood response when asked what they were up to.

  “Of course, Nonna,” they said in unison.

  As usual, my ladylike granddaughter Angela had her nose buried in a book. “Nonna,” she cried, lifting her arms when she saw me.

  The sweetest name in the world, I thought, reaching down to hug the twelve-year-old, who balanced between childhood and becoming a young woman. I hoped that the relationship we’d built would survive the tumultuous teenage years.

  While the typical pandemonium of a game day—shouts of joy when the Packers made a good play, groans when they biffed, and boos to the referees whenever a call went against the team—swirled around her, Rebecca Franken sat ensconced in one of the two recliners and Papa in the other. If Mama had lived, that would be her there, I thought, missing the woman I barely remembered. But Aunt Terry was as much a mother as anyone could ask for.

  I crouched next to Rebecca. “Is this too crazy for you?”

  She grinned. “I love it.”

  With a pat to her arm, I said, “Let me know if it gets overwhelming. We can always set you up in the kitchen.”

  “I offered to help Terry, but she shooed me away. I’m feeling very pampered, Angie.”

  Much better than feeling threatened, I thought. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll leave you to the madness and get the garlic bread ready for the oven.”

  At the table, we talked and laughed and enjoyed the feast, followed by cleanup and farewells. After Rebecca passed her keys to me, I navigated out of the driveway and sent up a little thank-you to the powers that be for the blessing of family.

  Chapter 34

  The soul is healed by being with children.

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  I enjoyed the drive west on I-94 to the Mulcahey farmhouse on the outskirts of Delafield, a small Waukesha County suburb on the way to Madison. Fall color peeked out from among the red maples, and a few aspens had started to turn. Fall was my favorite season but far too short to suit me.

  Spider never spoke about his military service, but his land and home were protected by every high-tech means available. Probably some low-tech means too. I parked in the circular drive and waved to Magdalena, who awaited me in the doorway with their older son, Joey. A min
i-Spider, with his spiky hair and brows on the move, he ran toward me, shouting, “Miss Angie, Miss Angie, Mommy says you’re going to babysit us. Hooway!”

  A shocked look came over Magda’s face and she hustled over. “Joey, I haven’t had a chance to ask Miss Angie.” The dark-haired beauty sent me a look filled with consternation. “I’m so sorry, Angie. I did not mean to presume.”

  “Oh, please, don’t worry about that. Do you have a particular date in mind?”

  With a sparkle in her eyes, she whispered, “Our wedding anniversary is this Saturday. We’d love a chance for an evening away.”

  “Let me text my aunt to see if she’s available. I’m not sure I’m up to caring for three this young by myself. I don’t know how you do it, Magda.”

  Aunt Terry’s response was almost instantaneous: Of course. I can’t wait to hold those babies.

  “We’re good to go for Saturday night,” I told Magdalena. “What time?”

  “Is seven-thirty okay?” she asked. “We’re planning dinner and a movie and should be home by eleven at the latest.”

  “Perfect,” I assured her and saw a huge smile light up her face.

  I turned to Joey. “And how are you, young man? Are you happy to be back in school and away from your little brother and sister?”

  “Oh yeah. They nevah leave me alone, Miss Angie. They always want to do whatevah I’m doing.”

  Joey’s problem pronouncing the letter r hadn’t yet resolved. “Well, that’s because you’re the big brother and you get to do lots of interesting things. No wonder they want to follow you around.”

  At that, his chest puffed out and he nodded. Taking my hand, he led me into the kitchen, where Spider sat feeding the twins in their high chairs.

  The spoon moved at lightning speed between fourteen-month-old Daniel and Gabriella, as Spider tried to keep it out of their reach and direct their attention to cut-up hot dog pieces on their trays. “Hey, Ange, welcome to the zoo.”