I woke when the water lapped over my chin. Wukowski must’ve heard me sputter, because he helped me up, wrapped me in a warm towel, and rubbed me dry. Then he pulled a soft flannel gown over my head.
I felt as cherished as a child at bedtime. This isn’t what I expected, I thought. With a yawn, I decided to simply enjoy the love that enfolded me like that deliciously warm towel.
In bed together for the first time in over—good Lord, I couldn’t remember how many days we’d been apart!—I laid my head on his shoulder and felt his arms encircle me.
You almost lost all this tonight, I told myself, recalling my foolish insistence on autonomy in the face of my increasing love for this good, albeit difficult, man. What have you been so afraid of? Before I could form an answer, I was asleep.
Chapter 58
Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven.
Tryon Edwards
I woke first, spooned by Wukowski’s body, and tried to slide out of bed without waking him, but in seconds it was obvious that he was no longer asleep. My plans for that special negligee melted away. Apparently, soft flannel was just as alluring. No complaints from me though, as we moved from the urgency of an overdue reunion to a gentler rhythm and then back to sleep.
When we woke for the second time, he showered while I got the coffee brewing and chopped onions and peppers for cheese omelets. When I heard the water stop, I slid bread into the toaster and placed our plates, mugs, and glasses of juice on the table.
Wukowski emerged, blinking, into the dining area of the open living space. Wrapping his arms around me, he drew me close and rested his chin on the top of my head. “I’ve been dreaming of waking up with you for months.”
“Me too, caro. But don’t get frisky again. I’m hungry.”
We sat and I began to wolf down the food. “I don’t know why I’m so ravenous.” With a mischievous grin, I added, “Well, maybe I do. Exercise in the morning fires up the appetite, or so I recall.”
He laughed and then sobered. “More likely your body’s response to the sustained adrenaline release last night. You need calories. So do I.” He forked up a big mouthful of omelet. “I almost stroked out when I got the call from Spider.”
“Are you planning to take me to task?” I hated the idea that he would spoil this lovely start to a long-anticipated reunion.
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Maybe later in the week though.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
We spent a leisurely morning talking about everything but the case. Like me, he’d done home projects while we were separated, and he shared photos of the new pergola that provided shade for his patio in the summer. “We can enjoy it for a couple more months, if we bundle up. I’ll buy one of those propane patio heaters.”
“Lovely,” I told him, picturing us with glasses of wine, side by side on the new glider that also graced the outside area. “And by the way, you haven’t mentioned the changes to the bedroom decor.”
His Han Solo grin widened into a full-fledged smile. “Didn’t notice,” he said. “Too worried about you last night and too busy this morning. Let’s check it out.”
Arms around each other’s waists, we ambled into the bedroom. There, on my nightstand, stood a framed photo of Wukowski and me, taken by my BFF Judy from the outdoor dining area of a restaurant on Pewaukee Lake. I’d packed it in the bottom of a duffel bag full of his things, to remind him of me… of us, when the MPD order came down.
“You brought it back,” I whispered, clutching him closer to my side.
“Never left my bedroom, but I figure I’ll be seeing it plenty now.”
“We haven’t talked about… about what’s going to happen next.” I hated that I sounded so tentative.
“Next you’re going to give me a tour. Point out all the little touches, because you know they’ll escape me and I don’t want to overlook anything.”
Okay, I thought, we’ll postpone the serious talk. The one about us. The one where I’d ’fess up to my realization last night that I’d wasted enough time clinging to my independence. If he didn’t get to it, I’d propose marriage, conventions be damned.
The bed was still rumpled, so, together, we straightened the coverings. “New color scheme,” I said. “Ice cube silver—light gray to you—on the walls, with French-blue bedding. I wanted soothing colors.”
“I like it,” he said.
“That, by the way”—I pointed to the cotton/linen blend comforter and shams—“is called pintucking.”
“Huh. Makes little diamonds. Nice.”
With a sigh, I gave up trying to explain my decorating choices and made straight for the bottom line. “I thought the room was too feminine before. I wanted you to feel welcome.”
“Moja miłość, all I need to feel welcome in your bedroom are your open arms.” He kissed me soundly and then leaned back. “By the way, you mentioned commissioning art panels from Swanson.”
“Yes,” I said, afraid to veer too close to a topic that might prompt dissension. “They’re still in his shop’s loading bay.” I pointed to the wall opposite the bed. “They’re supposed to hang there. Hammered and shaped copper, with blue and aqua patinas.” I felt my chin wobble. “I’m not sure I want them anymore. Maybe I’ll put them up for sale.”
“Because?”
“Because if Mick truly was an assassin, those panels will haunt me every time I look at them.”
Chapter 59
A daughter may outgrow your lap, but she will never outgrow your heart.
Anonymous
The landline rang, and I headed for the kitchen. Caller ID showed Papa’s number. Knowing that Aunt Terry had stayed with him last night and must have filled him in on the happenings at Spider’s, I prepared myself for a lecture. “Good morning, Papa.”
“Angelina, la mia figlia più cara, you are well after the events of last night?”
My dearest daughter. Thank goodness, I wasn’t in for a lecture. Yet. “I am,” I told him. “Wukowski stayed with me.”
“Ah, good. He is there with you now?”
“Yes.” What was this about? Papa usually turned a blind eye to his daughter’s sexuality.
“Then invite him for our Sunday meal.”
Sunday! I’d completely forgotten what day it was. “I… I don’t plan to be there today,” I said. “I’m feeling a little wiped out. But I’m fine, truly,” I hastened to add, lest he and my aunt arrive at my door in thirty minutes.
“Hmm. Well, you should plan to spend time soon with Terry. The two of you need to… debrief. Talk it over with each other so that it doesn’t gain power in your minds. Trust me on this.”
“I think you’re right, Papa. I’ll call her soon.”
“Bene. Now, I know that you are the caregiver and the person who wants to fix things for others, but for the moment, let Wukowski take care of you.” He paused and then added, “Unless he must work. In that case, come home. You should not be alone today.”
Not wanting to lie to my papa, I covered the receiver and told Wukowski about the fatherly insistence that I must be coddled.
“Pat’s right. I already called in for a day of vacation and let Iggy know.”
With a nod, I told Papa about Wukowski’s plans. “I promise to do nothing but relax and enjoy the day,” I said.
***
We did just that, ignoring the TV and setting aside the Sunday Journal Sentinel for another day.
Wukowski caught me up on news about his mother, Lena, who continued to recover slowly from agoraphobia. “And you’ll never believe what happened on Iggy’s family vacation in Door County. He was out on a morning run and spotted a porch pirate snatching a package from a doormat. When Iggy yelled at the guy, he stuffed this two-foot-long box into his pants, but he fell on his face, shouting about police brutality. Thank goodness the homeowner had one of those doorbell cameras.” He shook his head and said, “Nothing like a dumb-as-rocks criminal.”
I told him about
Papa’s heart scare and the guilt-tripping he liked to evoke to get his way with me. “I swear, he’s as bad as the guy on that old TV show." I put my hand on my chest and pretended to stagger back a little. “‘It’s the big one, Elizabeth.’”
In the early evening, I picked a not-too-mushy rom-com movie and he a not-too-violent action film, both of which we enjoyed while nestled on the couch with a delivery order from my favorite local pizzeria.
Later, the special negligee finally emerged from the closet. After we took it for a spin, I again fell asleep in his arms, postponing the topic of our future as a couple.
Chapter 60
It is right that we should stand by and act on our principles; but not right to hold them in obstinate blindness, or retain them when proved to be erroneous.
Michael Faraday
After breakfast on Monday morning, I got a text from Bobbie. All okay?
Me: Fine. With Wukowski.
Bobbie: Make up for lost time, girlfriend!
Wukowski ambled past me on the way to the coffee maker. “Plans for today?”
“Not really. I’m just checking work email and calls. Unless something new comes in, I’m taking today off.” I turned from the laptop and said, “But there is something I’d like to know.”
“Shoot.”
“Spider told me he would contact the FBI. Are they looking into Mick Swanson’s death and the samples he stashed?”
Setting his cup on the other side of the counter, he leaned forward. “Don’t know. I’ll check in with Iggy on that.”
Slightly frustrated that things weren’t moving fast enough to suit me, I changed into running clothes. “I’ll be back in thirty,” I told Wukowski as I headed to the front door.
“Want company?”
I appreciated that he asked, rather than harangue me about personal safety. Even big tough guys can learn, I thought, remembering the early days of our relationship. I told him I needed time alone and stepped out. Careful not to push his boundaries, I set my cell phone to remind me to turn back after fifteen minutes.
The breeze off the lake raised goose bumps on my arms as I took a slow pace along the path. Being a Monday morning, it wasn’t crowded with the weekend crew of bikers, runners, joggers, bladers, or boarders. Waves broke gently on the shoreline in undulating patterns that soothed my keyed-up nerves. When the alarm sounded, I stopped for a moment to release any lingering vexation about waiting for news and made for home.
As I entered the condo, my cell phone played a line from the Hall & Oates song, “Private Eyes.” A work call. I shucked off my running shoes and answered, “AB Investigations, Angelina Bonaparte speaking.”
“Yes, um, hello, Ms. Bonaparte. This is Dr. Frederica Lang from the Institute for DNA Studies. You contacted me via email on Saturday. I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling you. I got this number from your website.”
“I don’t mind at all, Dr. Lang. In fact, it may simplify things to speak like this, rather than engaging in a series of emails.” I filled a glass with cold water from the refrigerator dispenser and walked into the living room, where Wukowski sat perusing the day-old Sunday paper.
“I agree,” she said. “Less chance for misunderstanding.” With an intake of breath, she continued. “Your question about identical DNA intrigued me. Before I answer, I’d like to know the specific circumstances that prompted you to contact me. Given that you’re a private investigator, I wonder if this involves a paternity or maternity case.”
“Well, no. It involves a criminal matter.” I glanced at Wukowski and told the doctor that a police officer was with me and I’d like to activate my speaker.
“You must understand, Ms. Bonaparte, that I’m not an expert witness and will not agree to testify in court regarding DNA evidence. I am, however, willing to have an informal discussion and perhaps direct you to someone who may be able to assist you.”
I agreed and asked for her patience while I explained the call to Wukowski. One eyebrow rose, and he shook his head at my apparent refusal to face the fact of Mick’s guilt by DNA.
Once I’d put the call on speaker and made introductions, I explained Mick’s death, the letter concerning his life in Russia, his accusations against his cousin, and the DNA evidence that led to the police’s firm stance on Mick as the assassin.
“So he was a bone marrow donor. How very interesting,” Dr. Lang said, her tone even. “Are you familiar with the Greek myth of the chimera?”
“Nope,” said Wukowski.
“It was a fire-breathing creature composed of the body parts of several animals—lion, goat, and snake.”
I ran a quick Google search and shared the bizarre image with Wukowski. “I’m online, looking at one now. Does this relate to the case?”
“It might,” Dr. Lang said. “There are known instances of what is called human chimeric DNA, essentially a situation where a person’s organs or tissue contain cells with different genes than the rest of their body. It’s quite well accepted, for example, that after a transfusion, the donor’s DNA is present in the recipient’s blood for a short time.”
I had to hold back a gasp of sudden understanding. “The bone marrow transplant!”
“And when did this occur?”
“Almost forty years ago, in Russia,” I told her.
“Ah! Back then, I feel confident they used a procedure in which the sick person’s bone marrow is destroyed by very strong chemotherapy and then replaced with the donor’s. In such a situation, the recipient will forever have the donor’s blood DNA but will retain their original DNA in the rest of their body. They essentially have chimeric DNA. I can send you information concerning this condition. A forensic laboratory could confirm it, if samples are available from the blood and at least one other organ of the suspected criminal.”
“Would a hair analysis be enough to confirm the chimerism?” I asked, dreading a negative response.
“If it contained the root, yes. That would suffice. Or a cheek swab to collect saliva.”
I lightly punched Wukowski in the arm and whispered, “I knew it! I knew Mick wasn’t guilty.”
He shifted beside me and spoke. “Dr. Lang, when you provide that data to Ms. Bonaparte, can you also recommend a consultant who would be willing to testify in court, should it come to that?”
“I’d be happy to do so, Detective. I’ll send the studies that I’m aware of after the call ends. I wish you the best, Ms. Bonaparte. These cases can be extremely difficult, due to lack of general knowledge about the condition. Mr. Swanson is fortunate, even posthumously, that you pursued all avenues. Many forensic experts think DNA evidence is one hundred percent reliable, but that’s simply not so in these very rare cases.”
Wukowski hung his head while I ended the call. Then he looked me in the eyes, his hands resting on my shoulders. “If you hadn’t gone on what I thought was a fool’s errand, Angie, the memory of an innocent man would forever be stained and a guilty one would walk free. I’m so sorry for dismissing your intuition. I should’ve known better.”
I leaned into him, displacing his hands, and said with an impish grin, “Let that be a lesson to you, caro mio.”
Wukowski gave me a rueful grin and turned for the bedroom. “I have to change clothes. Call Spider and tell him I need the vials from his safe right now. Hunter’s gone free for too long already.”
“Go get him,” I said.
Chapter 61
The wound is the place where the light enters you.
Rumi
On Tuesday morning, the results of the DNA analysis of blood and hair from the vials came back. Wukowski drove to my condo to deliver the news in person. “The blood matches Mick’s, the hair doesn’t.” He gave me a long considering look. “Mick’s statement isn’t proof that both those samples came from Hunter. We need samples from Hunter himself. Since he’s under arrest for felony assault, he can’t refuse. The DA is on it, but it’ll take a few days. We don’t want to rush it and maybe get inconclusive results.”
I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and nodded. “The conviction’s the thing, with apologies to Shakespeare.”
***
As Tuesday melted into Wednesday and no news from the new tests surfaced, I shoved down my feelings and did my job. But at night, Mick’s eyes, open as he lay on the shop floor, haunted my dreams.
Bobbie ghosted in and out of the office on his current assignment, bringing me take-out lunch and Starbucks coffee, and gossiping about inconsequentials in an obvious attempt to distract me.
Debby invited Bart to speak to the owners about next steps for the Galleria, and I attended for moral support. From Metal Works’ dark storefront, an imaginary Mick Swanson called to me with the imprecation of his letter. I implore you to reveal the truth.
And at night, I dreamed about the assault at the farmhouse… and this time it ended in disaster.
On Thursday, when I hounded Wukowski yet again for news of the DNA results, he told me, “Be patient and let the process work itself out. And speaking of being patient, the department has released Metal Works. I think it’s time to retrieve those panels that Swanson created. That is… well, unless seeing them would be too painful.”
I pondered that idea over a cup of tea, then finally reached the conclusion that the panels represented the artist and not the fugitive. They symbolized the part of his being that Mick sought so hard to fulfill. I wanted them here, in my condo, in my bedroom, in my life.
Bram and Wukowski installed them that day.
Later, looking at them as I lay in Wukowski’s arms, I felt a sense of peace. The empty wall overflowed with beauty, with the evidence of a life, if not completed, at least well lived.
At long last, on Friday the results came back. Blood and tissue samples proved conclusively that Artur Hunter was indeed a human chimera and exonerated Mick of the Illinois murder charges.
“It’s done, Mick. Your name is cleared and Debby is safe,” I whispered that night as I prepared for bed. “Now it’s time for you to let go. Rest in peace.”
Blood Kills Page 18
